Kenric straightens his doublet and steps inside. I follow, playing the role of the silent, dutiful wife.

  The baker is a large man named Hannes, covered in flour. He looks up, wiping his hands on his apron. "My Lord? We are just pulling the morning loaves."

  "They smell delicious, Hannes," Kenric says warmly. "But I am here to discuss the building. I wish to buy it."

  Hannes blinks. "Buy it? But… my oven is here. My customers know this spot."

  "I am prepared to offer you twenty percent above market value," Kenric says smoothly. "In gold. Today."

  Hannes hesitates. "It is a generous offer, My Lord. But moving the oven… the downtime…"

  "I will also pay for the relocation," Kenric adds. "And, as part of the deal, the Fey Embassy will sign a contract for all its bread. Exclusive rights. Three hundred loaves a week, paid in advance."

  Hannes’s eyes go wide. He looks at me. I smile and nod.

  "Sold," Hannes breathes.

  "Excellent," Kenric says, shaking his hand. "My solicitor will bring the papers this afternoon. You have three days to vacate."

  We move to the next building. It is a tall, rickety boarding house that leans precariously over the alley. It smells of boiled cabbage and unwashed bodies.

  The landlord, a pinched-faced man named Klaus, eyes us suspiciously. "I have tenants. They pay rent. mostly."

  "I am looking for housing for my personal guard," Kenric explains. "I need the whole building."

  "I can't just kick 'em out," Klaus grumbles, though his eyes dart to Kenric's purse. "It's bad for business."

  "This building is a fire hazard," Kenric says, his voice hardening slightly. "If I call the City Watch to inspect it, they will condemn it. You will get nothing."

  Klaus pales.

  "However," Kenric continues, his tone softening. "I am willing to buy it as-is. For a fair price. You can take the money and buy a better building in a nicer district. One that doesn't lean."

  He names a figure. It is fair, perhaps more than fair for this rat trap.

  Klaus licks his lips. "Cash?"

  "Gold," Kenric confirms.

  "Sold," Klaus snaps. "I'll tell the tenants to be out by noon tomorrow."

  "No," I interject softly.

  Klaus and Kenric both look at me.

  "The tenants," I say. "Who are they?"

  "Laborers. Washerwomen. Rubbish," Klaus sneers.

  "They are people," I correct him. "And they will need somewhere to go." I turn to Kenric. "We will buy the building. But we will give the current tenants a month to find new lodgings, and we will pay their first month's rent elsewhere. We need the goodwill of the neighborhood, not their resentment."

  Kenric smiles at me, pride in his eyes. He turns back to Klaus. "You heard her. The deal stands, but we handle the evictions. You just take the gold and go."

  We work our way down the street. A cobbler, a candle-maker, a vacant warehouse. Kenric is masterful, charming, firm, and generous. He buys them all.

  By noon, we own the entire block surrounding the Mint.

  "This warehouse," Kenric says, pointing to the last building. "It backs right up to the vault."

  "Perfect for barracks," I say. "We can knock through the wall into the courtyard. The guards can come and go without stepping on the street. And the upper floors…" I glance up at the dusty windows. "Apartments for their families."

  "And your… sensors?" Kenric asks quietly.

  I touch the stone corner of the warehouse. I pulse a tiny bit of magic into it, feeling the resonance. "I will place a warding stone in the attic of every building we just bought. They will form a net. If anyone tries to spy on us, I will know. If anyone tries to tunnel, I will know."

  I look at the row of buildings. We have created a fortress within a city, masked as a neighborhood renovation.

  "You realize," Kenric says, offering me his arm to walk back to the carriage, "that you are building a kingdom inside a kingdom."

  "I am building a home, Kenric," I reply. "And in my experience, a home is only as safe as its perimeter."

  I send to The Violet Rose for lunch. The embassy kitchens are a long way from being open. When it arrives, I go to find Gerhardt. I find Gerhardt in the library of the Old Mint, buried behind a fortress of ledgers. The room is quiet, save for the scratching of his quill and the rhythmic tread of Haldor’s guards in the hallway. The air smells of ink and the dry dust of paper.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  When I enter, Gerhardt scrambles to stand, knocking over a stack of papers. He looks exhausted, ink smudged on his nose, but his eyes are bright with the manic energy of a man who has finally found a pattern in the chaos.

  “Sit, Gerhardt,” I say, waving him down. Melina pulls out a chair for me. “We have business before we get to the treason.”

  Gerhardt blinks. “Business, My Lady?”

  “The renovations,” I say, placing a small, heavy sack on the table. “I need accounts opened. Immediately.”

  I slide a piece of parchment across the desk. “These are the names: Holger, Merovech, and Dominico. They are the artists handling the Embassy restoration. I want them to have drawing rights up to five thousand ducats each for materials and labor. If they need more, they come to me.”

  Gerhardt dips his quill, his hand steadying as he enters the realm of numbers he understands. “Standard commercial accounts, My Lady? Or retained service?”

  “Retained,” I decide. “They are working exclusively for us for now. And open a general construction fund for the masons and carpenters. I want them paid weekly, not at the end of the job. Hungry workers are slow workers.”

  “And the source of funds?” he asks.

  I tap the sack. “This is the initial deposit. Pure Fey gold. Weigh it, assay it, and enter it into the vault. This is part of the seed capital for the Royal Fey Bank of Centis.”

  Gerhardt writes furiously. “It will be done, Princess. The accounts will be active by noon.”

  “Good,” I say, leaning back. “Now. Show me what you found in the King’s books.”

  Gerhardt hesitates, then reaches under the desk and pulls out a thin, black folder. He handles it carefully, as if it contains a viper.

  “It is far worse than I thought, My Lady,” he whispers. “And exactly as you suspected.”

  He opens the folder. Inside is a single sheet of paper, densely covered in his neat, cramped handwriting. It is a summary of theft on a grand scale.

  “I have traced the flow of gold from the last three years,” Gerhardt begins, his voice gaining strength. “It centers on the textile contracts for the army and the ‘entertainment’ debts of the Crown.”

  He points to the top section. “Duke Basten Pleiter.”

  “Tell me,” I command.

  “Basten owns the mills in the northern provinces,” Gerhardt explains. “He holds the exclusive contract to supply uniforms for the Royal Guard. The Treasury paid him for ‘Grade A’ wool, the kind used for officers’ coats. But the inventory manifests show he delivered ‘Grade D’ shoddy, the stuff used for horse blankets.”

  “And the difference?” I ask.

  “Pocketed,” Gerhardt says. “Nearly twenty thousand ducats over three years. But that is just the beginning. Basten also acts as the primary lender when the King falls short. He lends the stolen money back to the King at twenty percent interest.”

  “He steals the King’s gold, then charges him interest to borrow it back,” I muse. “That is bold.”

  “It is criminal,” Gerhardt corrects. “But here is where it gets interesting. Look at the gambling debts.”

  He moves his finger down the page. “Duke Nelis Doerr runs the houses. The ledgers show the King losing massive sums. But look at the transfer notes.”

  I peer closely at the numbers.

  “Nelis records the debt,” Gerhardt says. “But he doesn't keep the majority of it. See these transfers? Seventy percent of the ‘winnings’ are immediately moved to accounts held by Basten Pleiter.”

  “So Nelis was the face,” I realize. “But Basten was the bank.”

  “Exactly,” Gerhardt nods. “Nelis took a cut, a ‘management fee’ of thirty percent, but the bulk of the gold went to Basten. It supports Nelis's claim that he was being pressured. He was doing the work and taking the risk, but Basten was reaping the reward.”

  “And the Exchequer?” I ask. “Where does Goarreit Nidjam fit in?”

  Gerhardt flips the page. “Here. ‘Consulting Fees.’ Every time the Treasury released funds to pay a gambling debt or a textile invoice, a separate transaction of exactly five percent was sent to a holding company in Vupis.”

  “Vupis?” I ask.

  “A shell company,” Gerhardt says. “Registered to a ‘G. Nidjam.’ He wasn’t even trying to hide it, My Lady. He was so arrogant that he used his own initial.”

  I sit back, a cold smile playing on my lips. It is perfect. Basten is the mastermind, the greedy spider in the center of the web. Nelis is the coerced accomplice, guilty but useful. And Goarreit is the corrupt gatekeeper.

  “You have done well, Gerhardt,” I say. “This report… it is a weapon. I want you to make two copies. One for me. One for Duke Jellema.”

  “And the original?” he asks.

  “The original,” I say, standing up, “stays in the vault. Behind three feet of stone and a very nasty bit of Fey technology. If anyone wants to dispute these numbers, they will have to come through me.”

  I wait patiently while Gerhardt makes his copies. He hands me all of the documents. I take the original to the basement and lock it in the vault after placing some very nasty wards around it. Anyone, other than myself or Kenric, trying to touch this will fry, burn, and freeze. Repeatedly.

  I look at Melina. “We have the evidence. Basten is buried. Nelis is leashed. Now, I think it is time I had that chat with the Exchequer. I want to see if he remembers what the ‘G’ stands for when I ask him about it.”

  I signal for my honor guard, and we return to the palace. The Exchequer’s office is tucked away in the administrative wing of the palace, a place where the stone is colder and the shadows deeper. It is a fitting burrow for a rat.

  I march down the corridor, the heels of my boots clicking rhythmically on the stone. Kenric walks beside me, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his new Fey-steel dagger. Behind us, Inaba and Miyabe move with the silent, fluid grace of predators, their lacquered armor gleaming in the dim torchlight.

  Two Royal Guards stand outside the heavy oak door. They cross their pikes as we approach.

  “The Exchequer is busy,” one grunts. “No appointments.”

  “I do not need an appointment,” I say, not breaking stride. “I am the Royal Auditor for the Bank of Centis. And Lord Kenric is a Peer of the Realm. Move.”

  The guard hesitates, looking at Kenric. Kenric does not smile. He steps forward, using his size to loom over the man. “My wife wishes to speak to Goarreit. I suggest you open the door before she decides to open it herself. She is not known for her patience.”

  The guard looks at the pikes, then at Inaba, whose hand is resting lightly on his katana.

  He lowers his pike. “Make it quick.”

  Kenric pushes the door open, and we sweep inside. The office is opulent, but tasteless. Thick velvet drapes block out the light, and the air smells of stale perfume and sweat. Goarreit Nidjam sits behind a massive mahogany desk, counting a stack of coins. He freezes as we enter, his hand instinctively covering the gold.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he squeaks, jumping to his feet. “Lord Kenric? Princess? You cannot just barge in here!”

  “Sit down, Goarreit,” Kenric says, closing the door and leaning against it. He crosses his arms.

  I walk straight to the desk. I do not sit. I stand over him, letting my shadow fall across his ledger.

  “We are here to discuss banking, Exchequer,” I say pleasantly. “Specifically, the fees associated with international transfers.”

  Have you ever had to send money to another country? I have and it's not always easy. Let me know in the comments...