Two meters tall, a hundred and a half kilos wide, and hat in hand, he approached the small, narrow desk behind which his master was working. The arc of dun-colored fabric nearly vanished beneath the massive, nervously twisting fingers. “Mr. Shaeb, sir. I, uh, I have a report.” The master and controller of the Underhouse of Shaeb looked up. Though his vision was preternaturally enhanced, the result of several sophisticated and highly expensive surgeries, his eyes remained small and unimpressive. Just like the rest of him. It was what he represented that was intimidating, not the man himself. Stretching on tiptoes, Piegal Shaeb would barely have come up to Aboneh’s sternum. He could have had his legs artificially lengthened, but the process was painful and anyway, he preferred the anonymity conferred by standing slightly below average height. He was slender but not skinny, and the average dog import on the street was more muscular. His brown hair was of medium length, flyaway, and thinning.
