The Dawning Light

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There was just one elderly Peaceman guarding the bank that held the wealth of the Province of Dimay. In the cold, rainy drizzle of the Nidorian night, Kris peKym Yorgen paced the deck of his ship, frowning uneasily as he watched the black shadows of his men slipping up on the square-hewn brick building.

Kris peKym turned to the man at his side—a small, wiry Bronze Islander named Dran peDran Gormek. "Is the longboat ready?"

Dran peDran nodded.

"And the deests?"

Again the Bronze Islander nodded.

"Good," Kris said. "The bank's surrounded. We'll be in possession within three minutes, if all goes well." His voice was incisive: "All we have to do is cut down the one old guard and the Keeper—not much protection for millions of weights, is it?"

Dran peDran shook his head. "They isn't expecting any robberies, captain. You doesn't guard against something you doesn't expect."

Kris smiled. The little outlander's bizarre inflection always amused him—besides, there was truth in what he said. Nidor's banks were four thousand years old—and in four thousand years, no bank had ever been robbed. The idea would have been preposterous, once; Nidor's carefully-balanced economy had seen to it that everyone had at least enough for himself, anyway.

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