The Count

Urth
1

Prologue: The Naming

Būratanti Lake, Hlandrin Province
April 14, 2003

Winter, as always, seemed to approach rapidly in this eastern corner of Hlenderia. Only a week earlier, the humid air seemed to sit on one’s chest as it did in the doldrums of summer, and the taiga was teeming with life. This morning, though, Kikamanu saw his breath sit on the air before disappearing. “It is good hunting weather,” Kika’s father said after breakfast, speaking in the archaic Mūni dialect. He used the informal pronoun with his son: “Thou wilt join us.”

The Mūni band in which Kikamanu lived had settled down in their wintering grounds, along the shore of a lake they called Būratanti. Here, a collection of log houses sheltered the three dozen members of his community and their herd of muskox through the harsh southeastern Hlenderian winter. Kika’s band lived on the southern edge of the taiga, before it transitioned fully to permafrost and tundra. This meant that a five-person hunting party could, hopefully, supplement the approaching muskox harvest with bear, perhaps, or even a moose.

Kika’s 19-year-old sister, Chabsiminnu[1], would join Kika and his father. The party would be rounded out with their neighbor, a young man of 22, and his mother. As the five piled rifles and packs onto a four-wheeler, Chabsiminnu teased Kika. “Maybe thou wilt be named today!” she laughed.

Kika was beginning to resent the jokes. The Mūni named their children in their adolescence, when their personality began to crystallize. Girls usually received their name earlier, but Chabsi – who got her name at 12 – was early-named even for the female sex. At 16, Kika was beginning to feel that he would be Kikamanu - “Thirdborn” - forever. Joining a hunt, however, was a good sign – many a Mūni boy received their name after successfully taking down an animal. Kika had shot a few pheasant, and once even a great fen-grouse, but had yet to successfully take down any mammal.

Kika and his sister rode on one four-wheeler. Their neighbor and his mother took another, with the third being ridden by Kika’s father. The roar of gasoline engines filled the air as the rest of the band wished them good luck, and soon the three vehicles were speeding down a small trail, cut from repeated use by overwintering Mūnim. The settlement was about fifty miles from Hlandrin - the nearest city - and completely inaccessible after the first big snowfall. The adults were careful to watch their fuel use, because to run out meant carrying everything home by hand, and leaving the four-wheelers to rot over the winter.

After riding for thirty or forty minutes, Kika’s father, at the head of the line, put his arm up at a right angle to signal that the group should stop. The three ATVs came to a stop, and all five riders dismounted. Kika and Chabsi walked to the back of their four-wheeler. Chabsi grabbed her rifle, a hand-me-down with a beaten and scratched wooden stock. The scope, however, was new; bought over the summer at a store in Hlandrin with money she earned off-track-betting.

If Chabsi’s rifle was a hand-me-down, Kika’s was a twice-handed-down. It was a lever-action, and the brassy finish of the hardware had turned into a grey tarnish long ago. Atop his gun was Chabsi’s old sight, which she gave to her brother.

“Don’t worry, Kika,” she bragged, “I could take down a bear at 200 yards, even with that old scope.”

Kika sighed and slung the rifle around his back. The group gathered around, and his father spoke:

“Kikamanu, Chabsi, there is a bog about a half-hours walk that way. Look for moose. The rest of us will go over here. Tab-Amari[2] said he saw a brown bear in this area three days ago.”

Chabsi and Kika followed instructions and headed towards the bog. The pair were dressed in the rustic Mūni style: muskox-wool pants and jacket, colored bright blue and red from local dyes. It was not yet cold enough to wear the traditional fur coat, but one was left on the four-wheeler in case the temperature dropped.

An occasional bird song could be heard, but many of the avian inhabitants of this region had migrated north for the winter already. The silence of the taiga was broken at times by the sound of squirrels scurrying along the forest floor, digging hiding places for nuts. As Kika and his sister approached the bog, the ground began to become waterlogged and muddy.

“Watch thine step, brother,” she said.

“I know,” Kika replied, slightly annoyed at the coddling.

Chabsi detected the annoyance. “Did thou eatest breakfast this morning?” she asked with a smirk.

“Yes,” Kika said through gritted teeth. “You don’t need to coddle me, like a baby.”

“Don’t raise thy voice!” Chabsi scolded. “Thou wilt scare the moose.”

Kika sighed. “Why didn’t thou goest the other way, with thy boyfriend and his ma?”

Chabsi hit Kika on the back of the head. “I am your sister! Do not speak to me like a child!”

Wings fluttered as a murder of crows in the trees above took flight. The two returned to silence, and shortly the trees, already sparse, cleared completely, to be replaced with the reeds and tall grass typical of a bog in this region.

Chabsi crouched, hiding herself in the grass. Kika followed. The pair spotted a fallen tree lying on the ground and sidled towards it.

“We will wait here. Tab-Amari said he saw a bull moose in that pond over there.” Chabsi said, pointing.

The pair stayed by the log, alternating between sitting on the moist bark and laying prone behind it. At one point, after lunch, they heard a distant gunshot and cheering.

“They found the bear?” Kika asked.

“Sounds like it.” Chabsi replied. “I’m getting impatient. I’m going to see if I can find a fen-grouse.”

Chabsi turned to leave. “Wait!” Kika whispered. “You can’t shoot your rifle here. You’ll scare the moose.”

His sister nodded and walked to her pack, unlacing a compact bow tied to the side of it. She rummaged through the front pocket for string and, finding it, walked away as she strung the length of it.

Kika continued to wait. The sun’s rays got longer. He knew that the group would have to return to camp soon, and dreaded the thought of going back home empty-handed, eating bear shot by Chabsi’s lumbering boyfriend. At this moment, Kika heard branches break across the clearing. A massive bull moose, seven feet tall at the shoulder, stepped into the pond across the way.

Kika poked his head above the tall grass and raised his rifle to his shoulder, taking care not to make any sudden movements. The bull continued to stroll across the pond. Kikamanu knew it was now or never. He peered through the sights, aiming at the animal’s massive head, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out and the rifle, newly outfitted with high-powered ammunition, hurt his shoulder with its recoil. Through the scope, he saw the bullet make contact in the animal’s neck. It stumbled and began to run towards the other end of the pond. Taking another breath and actioning the rifle, Kiku fired again. The second shot hit the moose in its torso, and Kiku watched it stumble again and fall over into the shallow water. All he could see now was its broad antler, sticking out of the pond.

He heard rustling behind him, and Chabsi emerged from the brush.

“I got it!” he exclaimed, as Chabsi looked through her binoculars. She smacked him on the back.

“Good job, brother.”

At this moment, the adrenaline surged through Kiku and he began to shake. His teeth chattered involuntarily, and tears came to his eyes. At this, Chabsi looked serious. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

“Go to thine kill. Ensure it is not suffering. Don’t let Fa’ see thou cryest.”

Kika wiped his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah.”

When he arrived at his trophy, the moose had already expired. It was now late afternoon, and he waited for about fifteen minutes before an ATV carrying his father and the neighbor’s mother arrived. Chabsi followed close behind on foot.

“Look at that!” Kika’s father exclaimed. “What a catch!”

“Thank you, Fa’.”

“So modest!” Chabsi said with a sardonic grin. She put her arm around her brother. “This one was shaking and shivering after he took it down. It must be four times his size!”

Kika grimaced, embarrassed. His father laughed as he tied the moose to the ATV’s winch in preparation to drag it to the clearing to be dressed. “I remember my first moose”, he said.

The neighbor’s mother, looking serious, dismounted the ATV. Hadū was an older woman, and in her age she tended to serve more as a guide for these hunting trips than a hunter herself. As she approached the scene, her eyes began to water.

“What is it, ma’am?” Chabsi said.

“When Ashium-tun[3] was dying,” she began, “he said to look for his spirit among the autumn moose.”

Kika’s father bolted up at the sudden omen, letting the half-tied winch fall in the water. “Is that true, Hadū?”

She nodded and wiped her face. In unison, Kika’s father, Chabsi, and Hadū bowed their head in prayer. Kika, not really following along, bowed his head last. A short silence lay among them for a moment, before Kikamanu’s father approached his son, putting his hands on his shoulders.

“Kikamanu. My son. With this prize, thou hast become a man today. A man requires a name.” He paused and then deliberately switched to the formal pronoun used among adults. “You shall be known as Kirubim-araru[4].” He tightly embraced his son, followed by Hadū and then, reluctantly, Chabsi.

“It is getting late. We must dress this kill and then return home. Kirubim, help me tie the moose.”

  1. “Abundant Well” ↩︎

  2. “Far Sight” ↩︎

  3. “Iron Will” ↩︎

  4. “Spirits Cause Shivering” ↩︎

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I: The Meeting

Alpumachir, Meru Province
April 14, 2024

The charter plane in which Kirubim-araru rode was small enough to make the most frequent flyer uncomfortable. Its single engine, nearing 40 years old, sounded less like a purr and more like a wheeze. A spring, loose in the seat, poked Kiru uncomfortably. He had had a bad feeling about the whole thing as soon as he saw the plane on the ground back in Hlandrin; the red stripe along each side of it was chipped in places and faded.

The pilot, a Kwari man who, he admitted gruffly, had moved to Hlandrin three years ago, seemed to give Kiru the evil eye upon seeing the stitching on his coat’s cuff denoting his family lineage. Perhaps, Kiru thought, some long-simmering feud started generations ago with this Kwari’s family would be reignited in the air.

It was not to be, however. The flight was mostly uneventful, except for a patch of turbulence that shook the tiny craft from side to side. Kiru had even been able to see a glimpse of Būratanti Lake, on the shores of which he had been named 21 years ago to the day. The collection of wooden log houses in which his family still wintered now numbered six. The band to which he belonged had now grown by nearly 20 people, a testament to the longer lifespan and higher birth rate that the Mūnim began to enjoy over the past two decades.

At times, Kiru missed the traditional life he grew up in. For eight years he lived a positively domestic life in Hlenderia’s capital, Pelachis, as a legislator representing the Mūni Peoples Front. His parents, at least, were proud of him, though his sister found the whole thing silly.

“Don’t let the city change you, Kiru.” she said before his departure. “I hear those Vrotri in the city marry elves.”

Looking out the window, Kiru saw the town of Alpumachir, seat of Meru Province, to the east. An unpaved air strip was cut into the trees surrounding the town.

“Alpumachir is to our left, out your window. We will be landing soon.” the pilot barked into the microphone in his Kwari dialect.

Kiru tightened his seat belt. About ten minutes later, the plane touched down, quaking on the uneven ground. A small terminal, fit to welcome the six or seven flights the city received each day, stood at the end of the air strip.

Alpumachir - “Ox Market” in the Hlenderian language – was built as a place for the semi-nomadic Mūnim of the province to sell their livestock, though it also garnered a reputation as a place where muskox herders would blow their earnings on alcohol, drugs, and carnal impulses. Since the turn of the 21st century, however, Alpumachir had cleaned up its image – somewhat – and now made a substantial portion of its income from logging. The logs would be pushed down the Meru River by barges, processed at logging stations along the way, and driven to the country’s eastern ports for export.

It was here that Kirubim-araru was to speak to Mūni Peoples Front loyalists about the approaching census in October. In Hlenderia, only the western and northern cities had legislative seats that were truly competitive. In the country’s vast interior – in places like Alpumachir, or Kiru’s home seat in Hlandrin – legislative seats were reserved for the local majority ethnicity, and controlled by ethnic parties like Kiru’s own MPF.

Politicking instead took place around the censuses that the country conducted every five years. Because seats were apportioned according to population, censuses were far more important than the biannual elections, which were almost always foregone conclusions. Politically-minded Mūnim living in the bush would make their way to cities, holding birth certificates and whatever other documents they could get to prove their family’s existence. Mūnim who were not politically minded were usually not counted at all. October was springtime, after all, and winter settlements had to be packed up and left to follow the muskox to their grazing grounds. There was precious little time to report to some town like Alpumachir and speak to some bureaucrat.

In the interior, census workers – usually Vrotri or Kwari city-dwellers employed temporarily and shipped out to the middle of nowhere – cared little about accurately tallying the savage, semi-nomadic Mūnim. Their paycheck was negotiated before the census began and there was no incentive to do extra work tracking down nomads that smelled of muskox urine. After three days of no new visitors, the census office would close shop and the workers would move back to civilization.

All of this meant that it was the responsibility of Mūni politicians like Kirubim to convince their constituents to take time out of their day and bring their family’s paperwork to town. In other countries, politicians “got out the vote”. In Hlenderia, politicans “got out the births”. Sometimes literally – along with urging the local herders to bring their documents to town, Kiru would often urge them to have more babies . More Mūnim meant more seats on the Grand Council, which meant more power.

Kiru’s speech was to be given at an auction hall near the center of town. It had been packed all day, with local herdsmen selling parts of their flock before winter, mostly to Kwari slaughterhouse owners. Despite the strong odor the muskox gave off, its meat was considered a delicacy in the north and west of the country, and was even becoming popular with gastronomes overseas; best simmered long and slow in a stew to soften the tough, slightly-gamey meat.

In the late afternoon, most of these herders left, with a few of them staying behind to hear Kiru’s talk. The audience was supplemented with MPF members who lived in town. Seeing this always disappointed Kiru. Town-dwellers had no problem turning up to the census office; it was the herders that the party needed to convert to true believers. The vast majority of Mūnim in the country lived the kind of semi-nomadic life Kiru grew up in, and if even half of these non-participants could be compelled to register, the fortunes of his party would grow immensely.

The speech itself went fine, with Kiru receiving polite applause from the assembled, but he felt as if he was preaching to the choir. While speaking, however, he noticed a bearded man standing in the back of the room, dressed in the peculiar style of the tundra-dwelling Mūnim far to the southeast, and wondered what he was doing this far north.

Kiru resolved to approach the man afterwards, but it was not to be: the stranger cleared out with the rest of the hall. Kirubim-araru walked to the small inn he was staying for the night, looking forward to returning to the capital the next day.

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Pelachis, Capital Province
April 23, 2024

Kirubim-araru still had not gotten used to driving, though it had been eight years since he learned. Part of this could probably be chalked up to having been an adult, freshly moved to Pelachis, when he got his license, and not an eager teen like most Hlenderians. After all, there was little need growing up for Kiru to drive anything bigger than a four-wheeler, and little chance to run into anything besides the broad side of a muskox. In the city, though, even his small sedan seemed like a deadly weapon ready to maul a pedestrian.

The street design of this city didn’t help. He lived in the most central, oldest part of Pelachis, a few blocks from the Grand Council Chambers. Here, the narrow streets and alleys were winding and bumpy, a relic of the capital’s medieval history, and cars were parked where ever there was space – half on the sidewalk, half in the road, or double parked with hazard lights on. The buildings in the center of Pelachis were a hodgepodge of old and new; office buildings of glass and steel stood next to traditional longhouses of brick and timber divided into apartments.

Driving was further complicated by the fact that today was Saint Heldin’s Day, a Vrotri holiday that meant Hlenderians of that ancestry were walking the streets, some with bags of produce and meat for dinner later, others with the traditional tree branches to or from worship services, and still others just enjoying the day. In Hlandris Province, it had just snowed for the first time this season – Kiru’s sister had texted him that morning mentioning it. Here, in the northwest of the country, it was a warm fall day, and people were taking advantage of the weather.

Traffic was stopped now at the corner of 1st and Barusi Streets. A parade slowly made its way down 1st, towards the large Vrotri temple a half mile down the road. Kiru sighed, and rolled the window of his sedan down. He craned his head out the window to get a better look, and saw a float decorated in autumn colors slowly crawl by.

Saint Heldin was one of the peculiar saints that only the Vrotrim seemed to care about. His first year on the Council, after seeing a Saint Heldin’s Day parade, Kiru asked his uncle – a spiritual man – about it, and was told that Heldin was not even a Hlenderian, but some foreign, syncretic idol embraced by the Vrotrim and given a crudely-translated local name. “That people”, his uncle said, “have always been swayed by strange religion.”

Kiru shook his head in disapproval and brought it back inside the car. He texted his legislative caucus: “Stuck in traffic. Heldin parade”. In a few minutes, though, the parade passed and traffic began to move again. Two blocks ahead, Kiru could see the Grand Council Chambers. Built in the Hlenderian vernacular style, the Chambers looked like the old buildings that remained in the city center. Meant to resemble a traditional Hlenderian longhouse, the Chambers were as long as a city block, though narrow in width. The main construction material were gray granite stones, sourced locally, but most were covered by a wide, sloping wooden roof supported with carved spruce buttresses.

When Kiru made it to the legislature a few minutes later, he pulled his sedan into the underground parking garage reserved for legislators and staff. As he exited his car and walked to the elevator, Kirubim checked his clothing – traditional Mūni garb, of course. Fashion in the Chambers was split largely on ideological lines, with the conservative Kwari and all the Mūni legislators wearing traditional clothes and the members of the United Vrotrim and Liberal Party dressed in foreign “business suits”.

The elevator dinged and Kiru was in the Chamber Lobby. There were fewer “journos” than usual, considering the holiday. Two reporters made their way towards Kiru as he headed for the Council floor.

“Pelachis Observer. Councillor Sarachit, what is your opinion on the International Forum’s move to create an anti-poaching body?” one asked.

Kirubim-araru cleared his throat and brought the talking points disseminated by the Mūni People’s Front leadership to the front of his mind.

“We must take every effort to conserve our nation’s environment and fauna. But we also must preserve the traditional way of life of my people, including the whaling that is essential to the livelihoods of coastal Mūnim. And the customary laws of Hlenderia’s heartland need to be respected. Excuse me,” Kiru said, and walked towards the Council floor.

Opening the door to the legislature proper, he saw about seventy people seated for the day’s session. Most of United Vrotrim, of course, was missing except for a few backbenchers. Kiru made his way to his seat on the right side of the chamber, near the middle of the slim column of seats assigned to the MPF. His seat location, like most in the body, corresponded to his political importance in his party: not too important, but senior enough to avoid being relegated to the nosebleed seats.

The “observation deck”, as it was facetiously known by the Councillors, was mostly empty, reflecting the public’s desire to enjoy one of the few nice days left this fall. The public’s gallery was a balcony suspended by carved columns above the semitheater on which legislators sat. At the podium on the floor stood President Marsilamat Indari, answering questions from the Council’s right-wing about the IF’s aforementioned anti-poaching motions.

Presently, Indari was looking down with a sly smirk as a member of his own Traditionalist Kwarim party grilled him, calling the IF’s proposals “dangerous” to the Kwari economy. In a way, Kiru pitied the President, who was often forced to defend the King’s “modernizing” agenda, despite opposition from even his own party.

The TK member returned to her seat now, and the speaker called on Baaru-tanti[1] Illabil, one of the Council’s great firebrands and a leading member of the fiercely traditional United Southeastern Mūni Bands. The USMB was an ally of Kiru’s own Mūni People’s Front but sat even further to their right, demanding an immediate repudiation of all foreign treaties, an expansion of Mūni-designated territory, and a return to traditional governance.

Councillor Illabil got up from his seat and strode to the podium facing President Indari. His clothes, unlike those of the more northern Mūnim, were undyed from a lack of colored plants in the tundra, and were made from a mixture of muskox and bear skins. On his right shoulder was a small but finely-tanned cape made of skin from a ringed seal, and around his neck and broad shoulders he wore a large necklace made from a mixture of animal and human bones, the latter being those of honored relatives.

Kiru was always amazed to see how the southeastern Mūnim dressed, and wondered how warm Baaru-tanti must be under all those animal skins. When Illabil reached the podium, he put his hands on its wooden top and leaned into the microphone. His jewelry rustled, and was audible in the speakers on the room’s ceiling.

“Honored President,” Illabil began with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, “when your government, facing its inability to whip votes from your own party, united with the Liberal opposition to force our Commonwealth to join the International Forum, I expected that it would lead to further assaults against the traditional Hlenderian way of life;”

Scattered applause came from the USMB seats to Kiru’s right. He was impressed, as he had been these past eight years, of Illabil’s ability to launch immediately into a sort of spoken polemic.

“But I did not expect such assaults to come so quickly, or in such force. The nations of the world who hold power in the International Forum pollute our air and warm the Southern Sea. One of my constitutents told me that seal hunts now take his band’s boats nearly to the southern ice shelves. Meanwhile,”

Councillors of both Mūni parties were now leaning forward in their seats.

“These same nations wax poetic about the need to reduce ‘poaching’. As if we Mūnim are incapable of managing our own animal sources! Ambassador Releth said that he thought this was ‘necessary’, and only gestured vaguely at protecting the sacred rights of my people to hunt their land and fish their seas without government interference. Honored President, wilt thou -”

The speaker interjected. “Councillor Illabil, use of the informal is not -”

“Honored President, will you commit to ensuring this proposed IF poaching body does not infringe on the rights of Mūnim?”

The USMB and MPF legislators clapped; Kiru thought the question got at the heart of the hypocrisy inherent to this issue. As for Illabil’s use of the informal, this was part of the latest political game on the Grand Council: since MPF Councillor Saharu-madis Darsi had been suspended for using the informal, other Mūnim would regularly do the same, only to correct themselves or retract at the last minute.

For his part, if the grilling was getting to President Indari, he didn’t show it. He kept the same knowing smirk on his face that he had had for most of the morning.

“Councillor Illabil, I would like to remind you that we are discussing a body which has yet to be voted on, let alone ratified by our Commonwealth, let alone convened! The government has communicated to Ambassador Releth and the IF at large our deep concern with Mūni harvest rights on land and in the Southern Sea.”

Councillors from the Liberal Party and the centrist Kwari People’s Party applauded. Kirubim-araru heard a door click in the public gallery above, and a man dressed in the distinctive garb of the southeastern Mūnim enter. He thought, for a moment, that he resembled the man he had seen nine days ago in Alpumachir, but second-guessed himself. The man took a seat in the gallery and glanced at Illabil, still at the podium, and then at Kiru himself.

“Honored President,” Illabil replied, “The Mūni people do not want concern from this government, they want guarantees! We must not abdicate the Commonwealth’s sovereignty on this issue!”

“Councillor Illabil, I have answered your question; when the IF proceeds to a vote on this issue I will keep this body informed of further developments.”

“The Speaker calls Councillor Kwarrōth to the floor,” the Speaker said, referring to the King’s daughter, a legislator sitting in his old seat and representing the Kwari People’s Party. Illabil looked at President Indari with steely eyes and then returned to his desk.

  1. Orca-Killer ↩︎

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Pelachis, Capital Province
April 23, 2024

The Istanu Corner Club was located at the northern edge of Pelachis’s “Old City”, the downtown that most preserved the city’s medieval character. Its name, “Istanu”, referred to its location near the ancient North Gate, now simply a gap in the Old City’s ruined stone wall that was preserved for posterity. It was situated, appropriately enough, at the intersection of a broad boulevard running parallel to the wall and a smaller road that passed by the Corner Club, through the aforementioned North Gate.

It was built in the vernacular Hlenderian style, of stone with a sloping curved roof, and it was partially for this reason that the Club was a favorite hangout for Mūni legislators after sessions ended for the day. When they spent time in the city, usually begrudgingly, they tended to preferred to live in and patronize places that were built the rustic fashion they were accustomed to.

The inside of the Istanu Corner Club matched the outside: conservative and vintage – of this latter quality, some Vrotrim in the neighborhood would say antique was more appropriate. Wood panelling covered the stone walls for insulation, and all the tables in the Club save a handful near the door were laid out in the Hlenderian style: low to the floor, with short stools on which the Club’s patrons would sit, legs folded in front of them.

Kirubim-araru sat at one of these low tables, squished into a corner of the establishment. A plate in front of him had some picked-through food, mostly pan-fried potatoes covered in rakwuti, a local paprika-based sauce. Kiru was drinking a perennial favorite of the Mūni legislators in the Club: the joint’s homebrewed millet-beer, and he had a book perched on his knee.

Kiru was engrossed in his book, a spy novel, and didn’t notice two men approaching until their shadows darkened his table. Looking up, he saw the pair and recognized both: one was Baaru-tanti Illabil, the “firebrand from the tundra” he had seen speak earlier. Accompanying Illabil was the man Kiru had seen, first in Alpumachir and then in the observation deck earlier that day.

“Councilor Illabil,” Kiru said. Though he was acquainted with Baaru-tanti, he was not so acquainted as to forgo the formalities of office. “It’s nice to see you.”

Kiru noticed that both men dressed in the manner of the tundra Mūni – undyed clothes made mostly of animal skins, with puffy insulation made of muskox wool. As he did earlier, Councilor Illabil wore a necklace made of stringed-together bones. They rattled with each step Illabil made, which intimidated the Vrotrim he walked by, but to Kiru reminded him of religious services at home.

The man to which Kiru had yet to be introduced was dressed similarly, but Kiru noticed that, instead of bone, he wore a silver chain around his neck with a triangular pendant hanging from it, and he had a salt-and-pepper beard.

“And you, Councilor Sarachit. May we sit?” Illabil asked.

“Of course,” Kiru said. The pair squatted down onto the table’s short stools.

“Councilor Sarachit, I would like you to meet my brother, Hai-ita[1] Illabil.

“A pleasure, Hai-ita.” Kiru said.

“I watched your speech in Alpumachir, Councilor Illabil,” Hai-ita said. “Of those in attendance, none could walk away saying they did not understand the importance of Mūni participation in the upcoming census. You seem committed to the growth of our people.”

Kiru looked at the bearded man across the table from him. Hai-ita was clearly going somewhere with this – the watching from afar, the introduction by a colleague – and Kiru was impatient to see the other shoe drop.

“I am, gimil”, Kiru said, using a local term of respect. “Mūni families having Mūni children is key to our political future. With the census coming in the spring, we have a chance to make our voices heard. A strong showing in the census and the elections that follow could finally allow our people to strike back against the collusion of the Vrotri and Kwari parties keeping us disenfranchised.”

Hai-ita smiled. A few teeth seemed to be missing from his mouth. His brother, Baaru-tanti, spoke.

“Eloquently spoken, Kirubim-araru. Though we belong to different parties, we share a commitment to the Mūni people. Rare these days,” he said with a slight sigh.

Kiru continued to wonder where this was going. Ever the politician, he looked for something to endear himself to these two men. He settled on Hai-ita’s peculiar silver chain.

“If I may ask, gimil Hai-ita… what is the meaning of your pendant?”

Hai-ita looked down and grasped the triangular pendant in his hand. A solemn look settled on his face.

“I am a descendant of Saint Ektū-at[2] Illa,” he said.

Kiru tried to hide his surprise, unsuccessfully. Saint Ektū-at, who led a regiment of Mūnim into battle against colonizers in the 17th century, was legendary. When he was wounded, and died at home two years later, his ashes were interred in a tomb somewhere in the southeastern Hlenderian wilderness. Supposedly, Kiru was told as a child, it took fifty men to dig the space out in the hard permafrost.

The tomb’s location was kept secret in the intervening years, with only his direct descendants knowing the location. It could never be known publicly, Kiru was told, or foreigners would pollute it. Perhaps missionaries would even pervert it for their own purposes.

Kiru gathered his thoughts.

“I am honored to meet such a gimila ,” he said. Hai-ita nodded.

“Kirubim-araru,” Baaru-tanti said after a short moment of silence, “Councilor Merakwu will not be serving as the Mūni member of the Census Committee this year. It is my understanding that the Mūni Peoples Front will be putting your name forward as a replacement for him.”

“Yes, Councilor,” Kiru said.

“The United Southeastern Mūni Bands will back your candidacy for that position. Despite our political differences, we agree on this matter.”

“Ah,” Kiru said. “I am very pleased to hear that.”

Now, he thought, the other shoe will drop.

“My brother,” Baaru-tanti continued, “has used his great fame in the Southeast to convey the special importance of this census to the Mūnim. In ten villages, and in Alpumachir City, we have sympathetic volunteers who will be serving with the Census Service.”

There was a sort of a wink to everything Baaru-tanti seemed to be saying. Kirubim got the impression this was not entirely above-board. “These volunteers have stressed the importance of Mūnim bringing their paperwork to the census offices this year.”

“That is good to hear. It is very important that all legitimate paperwork be delivered to the census-takers.”

“We are in agreement,” Hai-itu said with a start.

“Yes, we are. We look forward to your approval of the Mūni section of the census this year, Councilor Sarachit.” Baaru-tanti said. Both men stood up.

“It was nice to meet you both,” Kirubim said. He was not entirely sure what just transpired.

“Saints give you strength, Kirubim-araru,” Hai-itu said with a nod. With that, the pair left the bar.

  1. Watcher ↩︎

  2. Wild Ram ↩︎

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5

II. The Tallying

July 5, 2024
Thanelin, Hamshak Province

Thanelin, on the eastern coast of Hlenderia, sat at the end of a broad plain that was once forest. From the working docks on the water, the extent of Sacharatanti[1] Bay could be seen, from Promontory Point on the southern end of the harbor to the lighthouse on the northern end, and then the cold waters of the open sea beyond. Thanelin had long had a reputation for ethnic division, even before the government assigned the city and its environs to the Kwari people in 1920. The “Reallocation” had been the high point of a century of Kwari fecundity in the city and that, combined with a Kwari king in the capital and some notions of manifest destiny, ensured that Mūni resentment would only continue to fester.

Back then, two months of riots between the former Mūni caretakers of Thanelin and its new Kwari government ended in the central government dispatching the military to control the situation. Soldiers, mostly Vrotrim from the west of the country, pointing guns at Mūni barricades on behalf of Kwarim: what a bitter pill for the people who were once “first-among-equals” of this Hlenderian national experiment!

Unrest of that caliber had not been seen in Whale-Jump Bay since, though. Yes, lobstermen occasionally clashed, sometimes even firing shotguns at each other’s boats over fishing rights, but this was nothing to call the papers about. For plenty of feuding clans in the interior, that’s what they got up to on a good day.

Census years were a bit rougher, but still nothing like the disastrous winter of 1920. The Traditionalist Kwarim, who controlled Thanelin with the same well-greased machinery they used in a hundred other settlements in the nation, ensured that their armed wing, the Kwari Sportsmen’s Association, turned up at the census office to eyeball everyone in line. In recent years, the Mūni Defense Force, another armed political organization, showed up as well to eyeball the Sportsmen.

Every eight years, scuffles would break out to be broken up by the police. For the natives of Thanelin, it was life. What could be done? No one was going to solve millennia of internecine conflict themselves. Besides, the famed Kwari fertility that had put the city in their hands was beginning to falter. This was the 21st century, after all, and Kwarim did not have a dozen kids like they used to. Perhaps, it was thought, the Mūnim would be back in control like they used to be. In Hlenderia, the ancestor spirits had a way of making everything even out.

Galdesa Cherano and Nehi-dadana[2] Dinadith sat together in a tea-house in the Hawk’s Hill neighborhood, across the street from their local census office. Longtime friends, the Kwari and Mūni women enjoyed going to the census office together every five years. Other than at these times, they rarely thought about the politics of their friendship. In Thanelin, as in so many other places outside Vrotri territory, inter-ethnic friendships were rare, and those involved in them were making a statement whether they intended to or not.

They each carried a small folder containing their birth and lineage paperwork. Nehi-dadana doodled on a napkin between sips of tea, and Galdesa looked out the window of the teahouse. It was a cold mid-winter day, and she repeatedly had to wipe the fogged glass to see across the street. At least two dozen people stood in the cold.

“Hm, the line is not getting any shorter, Nehi.”

Nehi didn’t look up from her drawing.

“I’ve got time, I took the day off from work.”

“How’s the factory?” Galdesa asked.

“It’s the slow season. How’s school?”

Galdesa sighed. “I think the children are getting restless. Vacation next week.”

Nehi looked up with some concern. “I couldn’t do what you do. These kids don’t know their manners. And the phones…” she trailed off.

“I heard that the school board is going to let us ban them during the day next year.”

Nehi looked back down at her doodle. It was turning into a somewhat grotesque caricature of the cashier at the counter. The teahouse’s door opened and rang a small bell attached to the doorjamb. Nehi was sitting with her back towards it, but Galdesa could see it was a tall Kwari woman, perhaps 60, in fine clothes. Galdesa made eye contact with her, and she could see a slight scowl. Then, the woman shook her head.

Galdesa, aware that anyone could see by her friend’s clothes that she was Mūni, was sure that the scowl was because she was sitting with an “ox-herder”. She turned red. Nehi looked back up from her drawing.

“What?”

“That woman that just came in gave me the evil eye.” Galdesa made a sign of blessing over herself, waving her hand in front of her face in a circular motion.

Nehi nodded slightly. When they were children, Galdesa standing up for her was endearing. As the years went on, though, she was beginning to find it slightly presumptuous. She would get especially righteous during every census, and had a tendency to make things worse.

On the other hand, Galdesa, whose namesake was Saint Galdesa of Makaltradi, tried to embody the nature of her spiritual forebear. The story was famous, and recorded in the scriptural book Acts of the Saints. The holy woman had encountered a Mūni hunter on the road who had broken his leg and was freezing. The hunter, who belonged to a clan with whom Galdesa’s was feuding, should have been left to die, but the saint instead gave the man her fur coat and helped him into town.

“Please don’t say anything.” Nehi said. Galdesa seemed to be working herself up into a frenzy, but she sighed and relaxed back in her seat.

“Okay.”

Galdesa wiped her hand on the window again. The line seemed to be a little shorter.

“I think the line is shortening, Nehi. Do you want to go?”

Nehi quickly finished her tea. “Yeah, sure.”

Bundling up in coats and hats, the two women walked towards the door, past the ill-humored Kwari woman, and went outside. They waited for a car to pass and then darted across the street into line.

They had only been waiting in line for a few minutes when they saw a man approaching. He looked to be in his thirties and wore a trim, dark beard. He looked wiry, had dirt on his cheeks, and a cigarette poked out from between his lips. It was obvious from his clothing that he was a member of the Kwari Sportsmen’s Association. He surely had a weapon, Galdesa knew, but it must be concealed.

As he walked down the length of the line, Galdesa could see a pin representing the Traditionalist Kwarim on his scarf. The man walked just past her and paused in front of Nehi.

“Mūni hours start at 6:00pm. Only Kwarim can check in right now.”

Nehi cleared her throat.

“This is the only time I can come.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” the man said, leaning closer. “Only Kwarim can check in right now.”

Galdesa could hold her tongue no more. “You and I both know there’s no such thing as Kwari and Mūni hours!”

Nehi looked at Galdesa and seemed to plead with her with her eyes. If Galdesa noticed, she ignored her friend for her own good. “Leave us alone, or I will call the police!”

The man glared at Galdesa and then looked back at Nehi. “Is this your friend?”

“Yes!” Galdesa interrupted. “You won’t intimidate us!”

The man took another drag from his cigarette, and then tossed it on the ground and stepped on it. The others in line, mostly Kwarim, seemed to back away from the unfolding argument. The man looked down the line towards another man and signaled him to approach.

Galdesa felt anxiety rise in her stomach, but she tamped it down. She reached into her skirt pocket for her cell phone. “I am calling the police. Census intimidation is illegal!”

The man knocked the phone from her hand onto the ground. Nehi tapped her foot and looked around. Looking over her left shoulder, she saw two men in Mūni garb approaching. Ahead of her, she saw two more Kwari Sportsmen walking up the queue. Surreptitiously, she signaled to the Mūni men, who sped up their stride.

The first man seemed to tower over Galdesa, but she did not cower and continued to stare him in the eyes. He reached behind him, towards the small of his back, at what Nehi knew was a weapon. Nearly simultaneously, the man’s two friends and the Mūnim Nehi had signaled arrived.

“Thou wilt leave our sister alone!” one of the Mūni men shouted, using the derogatory informal. He put his arm around Nehi.

“Get out of here, you smell like ox piss!” yelled one of the Sportsman. The first man indeed pulled out a small pistol, and pushed Galdesa towards the wall of the building, turning to face the men. One of the Mūnim withdrew his own pistol from a coat pocket. Those still standing in line scattered, and people from the teahouse across the street were beginning to gather outside to watch.

“Kwarim out of Thanelin!” the man with his arm around Nehi shouted. Galdesa, who had her breath knocked out of her when she was pushed against the wall, was bent over with her hands on her knees. The sound of sirens began to approach.

One of the Sportsmen threw a punch, and then received a punch in return. Nehi extracted himself from the man holding her and went to help her friend. Galdesa quickly picked her phone up, and the two hobbled away as the scene devolved into a general brawl. As a pair of police cars arrived on the scene, there was a loud crack and the man that had initiated the whole fight fell to the ground, clutching his foot.

“I’m shot!”

Officers surrounded the five men and began pulling them off of each other and shoving them into waiting cars. They could hear the screams of the man shot in his foot from up the street.

“You idiot!” Nehi shouted at Galdesa. “You could have gotten us killed!”

“That wasn’t… right!” Galdesa said between breaths of air. “I wasn’t going to let him do that to you!”

“I can take care of myself! I could have come back later!”

Galdesa looked at Nehi-dadana. She was furious and had tears standing in her eyes. Galdesa took more deep breaths and fell back on the wall of the building. “It’s not right.”

Nehi threw her hands up. “Call me when you’re ready to apologize!” she said, walking away.

  1. Whale-Jump ↩︎

  2. Quiet Strength ↩︎

6

July 28, 2024
Thanelin, Hamshak Province

On Sundays, Nehi-dadana would try to sleep in and enjoy a luxurious sleep before the workweek began anew. Over the past few weeks, though, that was becoming harder. Nehi found that she would dream of the violence she witnessed at the polling place and wake with a start, usually before sunrise. Most times, she would slip out of bed, taking care to avoid waking her husband or children, and make some tea.

Today, she woke at 5:35. The sun would not rise for another three hours at least. After a few tosses and turns, Nehi resigned herself and got out of bed. Her husband woke briefly while she put on pajama pants.

“Awake again?” he mumbled.

“Go back to sleep, Kaiasa[1].” she replied. “I am going to make some tea.”

Kaiasa rolled over.

After nightmares, Nehi tried to be grateful for how well her little Mūni family was doing for itself. Hawk’s Hill was not such a bad neighborhood to live in – there were certainly worse ones on the south side of town – and her kitchen was always well-stocked. She rarely had to eat greasy muskox like many of her compatriots, preferring to choke it down only for Mūni holidays.

Nehi reached into the pantry and pulled out a box of tea. Hobstiberry with cinnamon always relaxed her. She put a kettle on to boil, looking forward to smelling the sweet, botanical vapors.

She leaned on the counter for a minute, idly reading the back of the tea box, when she heard a pounding at the front door of their apartment.

“Kadānot![2] Open up!”

Nehi-dadana gasped. Scarcely five seconds later, they rapped at the door again. She heard her husband jump out of bed. He stumbled out of the bedroom into the kitchen in his shirt and pajama pants.

“Go see the children!” he said to Nehi. She hustled to the bedroom her two sons slept in. Both boys were awake.

“What was that?” Bukra[3] asked.

“Nothing, go back to sleep.” she soothed.

Nehi rubbed Bukra’s head as his brother looked on. The younger boy didn’t seem to be too disturbed, and fell back asleep. She heard Kaiasa speak with the police. What could be going on?

After a few minutes, Kaiasa softly opened the bedroom door. Bukra had also fallen back asleep, but Nehi continued to caress his hair.

“They, ah,” Kaiasa began. “Can you come out here?”

Nehi-dadana felt a pit in her stomach. This must be about the census office incident. She took a moment to center herself, and then sighed. Careful not to wake her children, she went back into the kitchen with Kaiasa. From their vantage point, they could see two officers standing in the doorway. They huddled together while Kaiasa whispered.

“It’s about the fight at the census office.”

“I know.” Nehi replied.

“They want you to go with them. I couldn’t convince them otherwise.”

Nehi didn’t reply.

“Listen, I can have my brother come over and watch the kids, then I will be right over to the station afterwards.”

To be honest, her brother-in-law was the last person Nehi wanted involved in all this. He was always involved in some Mūni activism around census time, and she knew he’d make this about himself. But Kaiasa’s parents lived a day’s travel away, and her own family even further.

“Okay, yes.”

Kaiasa embraced Nehi, and then she walked across the kitchen. One policeman grabbed her arm and the other walked ahead. The three of them walked down the halls of their apartment building to the elevator. When the doors opened, she saw Mrs. Yandri from down the hall inside the elevator. Seeing the scene, she gasped and made a beeline for her own apartment.

As the elevator went down eleven floors to the street, Nehi looked at the policemen accompanying her. The one holding her was clearly with the Hawk’s Hill department, and dressed in the typical Hlenderian policeman’s uniform – a gray coat with black embroidery around the cuffs and collar, and black pants. He wore a collared shirt underneath the coat. The other policeman dressed in a foreign-style business suit. Nehi worried that he was from the capital.

As they walked out of her building, a police car was parked in front with its lights on. The windows were fogged over from the heater so she couldn’t see inside, but as the suited policeman opened the back door, she saw Galdesa and her blood boiled.

Galdesa began speaking to Nehi as soon as the car took off, but Nehi shut her down before the two officers in the front had a chance to. She was not interested in Galdesa’s self-satisfied preaching about the injustice of their current situation.

The police station shared a building with the local courthouse, and the two of them were booked quickly. The officer in the suit explained that they were being charged with Disturbance of the General Peace and Leaving the Scene of a Crime, both misdemeanors. He further explained that, per Hlenderian law, misdemeanors were to be investigated and tried by a single judge, not the three that would be necessary for a felony.

They were both put into a large cell after having their fingerprints and pictures taken. Across the room was the local drunk tank. A few of the men were passed out, but others catcalled them. Nehi, still wearing her pajamas, turned away from their shouting and faced the wall.

The sun was beginning to come up when another officer entered the room.

“You!” he said, pointing at Nehi. “Come with me.”

Nehi got up and followed the officer out of the jail and through the station. She saw a couple dozen officers – working, chatting, and drinking tea. Eventually, the officer opened a door and said, “through here.”

Nehi had never seen the inside of a court before. It was arranged like an old Hlenderian round-house or yurt, the kind that had fallen out of style perhaps 500 years before. One tall wooden stool was clearly for the judge, but it was empty. A handful of others were positioned in a semi-circle opposite the judge’s. Nehi picked one in the front row and squatted on it.

“No!” the officer barked. “This one.”

He pointed at an identical-looking stool four spots over. Nehi got back up and sat there.

“The judge will be right in.” the officer said, and then stood by the door.

Nehi looked around. The room was covered in dark wood paneling and lit from a large skylight above, meant to recall the kind of primitive chimney that would typically be found inside a roundhouse. It smelled old, like dust and years of accumulated tobacco smoke on the walls. After a few minutes, the door behind Nehi opened and the judge walked in.

She noticed he looked tired and annoyed, like he had also been woken up on a day off for this. He wore a maroon coat in the Kwari style, with golden embroidered accents, and his grey hair looked disheveled, like he just rolled out of bed. On his lapel he wore a pin signalling that he belonged to the Traditionalist Kwarim. He approached the tall stool in the center of the room and squatted.

Nehi looked at him anxiously, waiting for him to speak. Instead, he pulled a pipe from his coat pocket and packed it with care. After a couple minutes, the judge reached back into his coat pocket for a packet of matches and, with steady hands, lit one.

For his part, the judge did resent having to turn up to the courthouse at 8:30am on a Sunday. He had received a call from the Chief Litigator’s office at 6:00am saying that the police had found the instigators of the embarrassing “Census Brawl” and requested a sympathetic Traditionalist Kwarim voice to hear the charges. At first, the judge considered refusing, but when he remembered that Seren Kwandi on the District Court would be retiring soon, decided it would be a feather in his cap when the TK decided Judge Kwandi’s replacement.

He beckoned the police officer by the door to approach, and the latter brought a trim manila folder. The judge put the folder on a short table in front of his stool and flipped it open.

“Nehi-dadana Dinadith?” he asked, barely looking up from his folder.

Nehi, who had never been in a situation like this, grasped for words.

“Ah, hm, yes.”

“You are charged with Disturbance of the General Peace and Leaving the Scene of a Crime. The Chief Litigator’s Office has a signed affidavit from… Gulindi Favelas, who says she saw you leave a coffee shop before the incident, and says that phone data retrieved by the Telecommunications Bureau shows you were in the area at the time of the incident.”

The Telecommunications Bureau? That suited man must indeed have been from the capital. Nehi could hardly believe that someone in the nation’s government took any interest in her case.

“Do you plead guilty, not guilty, or no contest?” the judge said, taking a puff from his pipe.

Nehi did not think she did anything wrong, but also did not want to hire a lawyer to fight the case… and she would like to go home to her children today.

“No contest.”

“The court finds you guilty and orders you to pay a fine of one-thousand dinot.” The judge slammed the folder shut and beckoned the officer back over.

One thousand dinot was nearly a king’s ransom for the Dinadith household. Tears came to Nehi’s eyes as she wondered how she would pay.

“You can leave!” the judge said, as if he was bothered that she hadn’t left already. Nehi stood and bowed briefly before running out the door.

  1. Generous One ↩︎

  2. Police ↩︎

  3. Firstborn ↩︎

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7

August 22, 2024

The late afternoon sun lit up the street as Nehi-dadana snuck into a small bar and grill on a quiet corner in the eastern part of Thanelin. Spring was in the air, though the air remained bitter cold. In her arms she held a trim manila folder. A headscarf was pulled tightly around her face, and a brimmed winter hat kept her features half in shadow.

The door’s motion rang a small bell attached to the jamb, causing the half-dozen Mūni men inside the establishment to turn and look at her. Two sat at a low table in the corner, and four others leaned against the bar. A blend of clove, tobacco, and cannabis smoke filled Nehi’s nostrils. After a moment, the men inside turned back to their drinks. Nehi approached the bar.

The bartender wiped a spot in front of him with a damp rag. His shirt and jacket looked worn, with faded colors and fraying embroidery on his sleeves.

“Anything I can get for you, ereshi[1]?” he asked.

“Yeah, there’s a spot here for you, sister!” a man at the far end of the bar said. He had a leering smile.

Nehi attempted to hide her disgust. “Just tea, please. I was meeting Niklawi[2] here,” she said.

“I’ll get him for you.” the bartender nodded. “That’s enough out of you!” he shouted down the bar. The drunkard’s lecherous smile faded.

The bartender turned on an electric kettle perched on the end of his formica prep counter next to the handwashing sink. Before he could go to the back door, it opened and Niklawi walked out.

“Nehi-dadana, my sister-in-law!” he smiled.

“Niklawi, it is good to see you,” Nehi said as Niklawi walked around the bar to embrace her.

“You look anxious, sister.” he said. It was no lie; Nehi was worried about the impending due date on her 1000-dinot fine from the city, her friend Galdesa lingered in jail after causing a scene at her own sentencing, and Niklawi’s dumpy bar made her skin crawl.

“Just about this court business,” she replied.

“Well, come out back and we can discuss it. Do you need a drink?”

“I ordered a tea.”

“Shef, bring that out back when it’s ready.” Niklawi said in the bartender’s direction.

The bar’s backroom was less smoky, and for that Nehi was grateful. A handful of Niklawi’s friends – part of the Mūni Peoples Front, like him – sat at beat-up tables playing cards, scrolling on their phones, or reading political magazines. Nehi’s boots made squishing noises on the sticky floor as she followed her brother-in-law.

The table the pair sat at was the nicest in the room, which wasn’t saying much. Deep cuts were scored into its wooden surface from years of use. Nehi gently pulled the manila folder away from her chest, set it down, and flipped it open.

Inside was a stapled, thin packet of paperwork from the court. It detailed her fine’s circumstances, amount, and due date: August 25.

“Kaiasa tried to pick up extra shifts, and I worked a few nights for the taxi service, but we still need 700 dinot…” she said. Her eyes were already watering.

Niklawi, sitting perpendicular to her at the table, reached over and put his hand around her shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You two were set up. The city government just wanted a scapegoat for their embarrassment. Saints know they wouldn’t arrest the Traditionalist Kwarim thugs!”

A grumble of affirmation came from the other men in the backroom. Niklawi was right, but it didn’t make her lack of funds any easier.

“My friend, Galdesa, is still in jail,” Nehi said. “she argued with the judge at her sentencing.”

Niklawi, hearing a Kwari name, had a hard time caring about the mess this woman got herself into. But he nodded sympathy.

“It’s really criminal what you two have been put through.”

Shef entered the room and put tea in front of Nehi. It smelled like orange blossom. Nehi dug around in her pocket for money to pay. “Don’t worry about it,” Niklawi said, motioning Shef to go away. He handed Nehi a handkerchief to wipe her eyes.

“My sister, you know that my organization, the Mūni Peoples Front, wants to help our people.” Nehi sniffed and braced herself for Niklawi’s political grandstanding. “We can easily take care of this fine for you,” he continued. “Can we ask for your help in return?”

Nehi was surprised. Her husband did not warn her that Niklawi would want her to undertake some chore to repay the fine. But she was stuck nevertheless.

“Ah, what can I do?” she asked.

Niklawi stood up and walked to the corner of the room, where four cardboard boxes, the kind used at Nehi’s school for student paperwork, were stacked up. Niklawi grabbed one on top by the handles and carried it over to the table, dropping it with a thump.

He took the lid off and dug through, grabbing papers seemingly at random. After accumulating a small stack, he handed them to Nehi.

“These are some census packets for Mūni families living outside Thanelin. They can’t make it into town to show up in person, but asked us to help them be counted. Can you take these over to the West Thanelin census bureau and turn them in?”

Nehi scrunched her eyebrows, flipping through the packets. Some of these families had 8 children, and their addresses were for places deep in the eastern Hlenderian wilderness.

“Is that allowed, to bring census paperwork for someone else?” she asked.

“Yes,” said a man across the room playing cards. “A lot of those real deep-woods Mūnim, they can’t all make it into the city. The community sends one person to bring them all in.”

Nehi, still confused, turned to look at him. He had a knowing smirk on his face. “So why don’t they do that this year?”

“It’s going to be a busy spring for those muskox herders.” he replied.

Nehi turned back towards Niklawi. She wasn’t convinced. But he was already writing a check for 1,000 dinot.

“I only needed seven hun -” she began.

“Don’t worry about it. The MPF wants to help!” he assured her in turn. Nehi nodded slowly, but now felt indebted.

“Okay, I can do that for you all. Just take these across town to the West Thanelin census office?”

“Exactly!”

Nehi politely smiled, but it looked more like a grimace.

  1. madam ↩︎

  2. Cunning-One ↩︎