My Own Crew

"Competing with the people for profit? Violating the way of The Gods?" The corner of Count Boles's mouth curved into a cold, mocking arc. "What a grand, high-sounding hat to clap on someone's head!"

He knew these people's tricks all too well. They always wrapped naked struggles over profit in moral essays, whitewashing their greedy selfish desires as "tradition" and "the will of heaven," while denouncing any reform that touched their interests as "tyranny" and "rebellion."

This was the most practiced—and most shameless—trick of vested-interest groups for thousands upon thousands of years.

But Count Boles did not slam the table and rise as he had last time in the Governor's Office, nor did he immediately order troops mobilized to arrest anyone.

He knew very well that in the bottomless, muddy pool of Herwenham, where every faction's teeth were interlocked like a dogfight, simple rage and brute force would only make him fall faster into a helpless, isolated position, and might even see him swallowed by the undercurrents.

The likes of Albrecht and Glass were merely the pieces set out in the open. Behind them stood the entire old network of interests that had entrenched itself in Herwenham for decades, even centuries—and there might even be tacit approval or indulgence from higher levels.

Meeting force with force might suppress a few birds that stuck their heads out for a time, but it could never root out the chronic disease. Instead, it would beat the grass and startle the snake, forcing the enemies in the dark to collude even more tightly, and might even draw a fiercer counterattack.

He needed deeper strategy. He needed to find the key to breaking the board.

Count Boles slowly turned around, his gaze profound, as if it could pierce the walls and see into the depths