The council chamber felt almost ordinary.

  Two weeks had passed since the oaths. Since the documents. Since Master Merovein had signed his name and then quietly excused himself from ever discussing the matter again. The world had not ended. The sky had not fallen. They had simply... continued.

  Today's agenda was the Crown Council seat.

  "Lady Hamsa Blackmoor," Fran said, setting down the list she had been reviewing for the better part of an hour. "I think we're agreed."

  Around the table, heads nodded. Some more readily than others, but none in opposition.

  "Her late husband was from Vartis,” Thalyra said. “Thirty years in the Crown’s service as a diplomat—Kentar, Namar, Vernador. King Maxence of Solmarin is still mourning him. That carries weight.”

  "And as for Namar—her family’s ties to the Sultanate could prove useful," Lord Merrowe added. He had been the one to put Blackmoor's name forward in the first place, and looked faintly pleased with himself for it. "Our late Queen Vasirra was a friend of hers. People remember that."

  "She knows how courts work," Olyan said quietly. "How they think. That matters more than legal training, in this case."

  Fran glanced at the others. Thorne offered a slight nod. Rhyve's expression remained neutral, but he didn't object. Merovein’s was the smallest nod of all, eyes already back on his notes.

  "Then we'll send word," Fran said. "Draft the letter this afternoon. I'll—"

  The doors burst open.

  A young guard—one of Verren's men, barely old enough to shave—stumbled into the chamber, breathing hard.

  "Your Grace." He bent double, hands on his knees. "There's a man at the gates. Followed by—" A gulp of air. "Half the lower city, near as I can tell."

  Fran was already standing. "Followed how?"

  "With torches, Your Grace. And rocks."

  Rhyve was already moving toward the window before the guard finished speaking, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Thorne joined him a moment later, his expression sharpening as he took in whatever lay below.

  "There's a crowd at the main gate," Thorne said. "Sixty, perhaps seventy. More gathering in the square."

  "The townsguard?" Rhyve asked.

  "Present. Outnumbered."

  Merrowe had risen too, craning his neck to see past them. Olyan remained seated, but her knuckles had gone white against the armrest. Thalyra was watching Fran.

  "Your Grace," the young guard managed, still catching his breath. "Lieutenant Verren sent me. He's holding the gate, but the man—he's begging sanctuary. Says he'll be killed if we turn him out."

  "Who is he?"

  "A tax collector, Your Grace. Name of Hotham."

  Fran didn't recognize it. She looked to the others.

  "Odo Hotham," Thalyra supplied, frowning slightly. "Minor functionary. Been collecting revenues from the lower quarters for years."

  "And now half the city wants him dead." Fran moved toward the door. "I need to see this myself."

  "Your Grace." Olyan's voice was strained. "Perhaps it would be wiser to send—"

  "If I send someone else, I learn what they think I should know." Fran paused at the threshold. "Sir Rhyve, with me. Lord Thorne, if you would. The rest of you—stay here until we know what we're dealing with."

  Merrowe looked faintly disappointed. Merovein, she noticed, had not risen from his chair at all. His eyes were fixed on his papers, though she doubted he was reading them.

  The corridors passed in a blur of hurried footsteps and murmured exchanges with guards who fell into step behind them. By the time they reached the main courtyard, Fran could hear the crowd—a low, ugly sound, like waves against rocks. Rhythmic. Hungry.

  Lieutenant Verren met them at the gate, his face tight with poorly concealed worry.

  "Your Grace, I must advise against—"

  "Noted." Fran kept walking.

  The gates were iron-reinforced oak, built to withstand a siege. Today they stood open just wide enough for a single man to slip through, and that man was currently pressed against the inner wall, shaking.

  Odo Hotham was perhaps forty-five, soft around the middle, with the kind of face that had probably smiled its way through countless transactions. He wasn't smiling now. His fine coat was torn at the shoulder, and there was a cut on his forehead that had bled freely down one side of his face.

  "Your Grace." He scrambled toward her, hands outstretched. "Your Grace, thank the gods—these people, they've gone mad, I've done nothing, I swear to you—"

  Beyond the gate, the crowd surged. Fran caught glimpses of faces—men and women, some young, some old, all of them angry. A few held torches despite the daylight. Others clutched stones, tools, makeshift clubs.

  And standing between them and the gate, looking like a man trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands, was Sheriff Tarl Vandess.

  Fran hadn't seen him since the diamond smuggling affair last spring, but he looked much the same—weathered, professional, exhausted. His men formed a thin line between the mob and the palace, shields raised but swords sheathed. A wise choice. Blood would only make this worse.

  "Sheriff," Fran called.

  Vandess turned, shielding his eyes from the glare. "Your Grace. I tried to contain them in the Copperway, but once Hotham ran..." He shook his head. "They followed."

  "What did he do?"

  The question was directed at Vandess, but Hotham answered first. "Nothing! Lies and slander, Your Grace, the accusations of bitter people who resent honest collection—"

  "I wasn't asking you."

  Hotham's mouth snapped shut.

  Vandess's expression was grim. "Extortion, mostly. Squeezing families who can't pay. But the spark was a widow arrested three days ago—husband not yet cold in the ground. Her brother tried to stop it and got thrown in irons. That set the lower quarters alight."

  Fran absorbed this. A corrupt taxman, a grieving widow, a brother in jail. The oldest, ugliest story in the world, playing out at her gates. Behind her, she could feel Thorne watching, assessing. Rhyve had positioned himself slightly ahead of her, not quite blocking her but ready to move.

  The recipe for a riot. The spark was lit. Her next move would either bank it or fan it.

  "Your Grace," Verren tried again, lower this time. "The chapel. Please."

  She knew what he meant. Durnhal. The dagger. The scar she still carried beneath her ribs.

  "I remember," she said quietly. “And I’m still going.” Then she stepped forward, into the gap between the gates.

  The crowd noise faltered. Not silence—not yet—but a shift, a collective intake of breath. They hadn't expected this.

  Fran raised her voice. "I am Frances Serenna Elarion, Duchess of Foher. I will hear this matter."

  Someone near the front spat. "Hear it and bury it, more like! Same as always!"

  "No." Fran held her ground. "I will hear the man who fled to my gates. I will hear the Lord Mayor of Vartis. I will hear Sheriff Vandess. And I will hear one of you—chosen among yourselves—to speak for those who followed."

  Murmurs now. The stones lowered slightly.

  "One hour," Fran continued. "In the Great Hall. Drop your weapons, choose your speaker, and I will let you in. But if I see one more rock thrown, the gates close, and Sheriff Vandess clears the square. Am I understood?"

  She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and walked back through the gates with measured steps. Her heart was pounding, but her pace remained steady.

  Verren fell into step beside her, still pale. "Your Grace, that was—"

  "Necessary."

  She didn't look at the tower as they crossed the courtyard. She kept her eyes forward, her shoulders straight, her expression composed.

  She didn't look.

  But she knew exactly which window was his.

  She turned her back on the tower and walked inside. Minutes later, the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall groaned open.

  The hall had seen better days. Not in its structure—the vaulted ceiling still soared, the Elarion banners still hung proud—but in its purpose. Once, Fran's ancestors had held formal audiences here, dispensing justice from the carved oak seat at the far end. Her uncle had preferred the council chamber. So had she. The Great Hall had become a place for ceremonies and feasts, not judgment.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Today, it would remember its original purpose.

  Fran took the high seat. Rhyve positioned himself to her right, hand resting on his sword. Olyan sat at a small table nearby, paper and ink at the ready. Merovein sat beside her with his ledger, already making a list of which accounts would need to be pulled. Thorne had chosen a spot near the windows, half in shadow, watching as always. And Merrowe stood by the eastern wall, arms folded, his expression carefully neutral.

  Too neutral, perhaps. Tax collection fell under his purview as Master of Coin. If Hotham had been extorting families for years, questions would follow. Fran filed that thought away for later.

  Verren's men brought Hotham in first.

  The tax collector had cleaned the blood from his face, though the cut on his forehead still looked raw. He walked with the careful dignity of a man trying to salvage what remained of his reputation—shoulders back, chin raised, a pleasant smile firmly in place.

  "Your Grace." He swept into a bow that was only slightly unsteady. "I cannot express my gratitude. When I saw the mob at my heels, I feared the worst, but I knew—I knew—that if I could only reach your gates, justice would prevail."

  Fran said nothing.

  Hotham's smile flickered, then steadied. "These accusations, Your Grace—baseless, all of them. I've served the duchy faithfully for twelve years. Twelve years! And now, because of one unfortunate misunderstanding with a widow who couldn't pay her lawful taxes—"

  "You arrested a grieving woman three days after her husband's death," Olyan said flatly. "And her brother for trying to stop you."

  Hotham turned to her, adjusting his approach with the ease of long practice. "My lady, I understand how it must appear. Truly, I do. But the law is the law, and I am merely its instrument. If we make exceptions for every sad story—"

  "The law," Olyan interrupted, "does not require you to collect from a household in mourning before the body is cold."

  "Custom, my lady. Not law. There's a difference."

  "I'm aware of the difference." Olyan's voice could have frozen water. "I wrote half those statutes."

  Hotham's smile finally cracked.

  The doors opened again. Lord Mayor Stannard Brimsey entered with the air of a man who wished very much to be somewhere else.

  He was younger than Fran had expected—mid-thirties, perhaps—with the soft hands and careful grooming of merchant wealth. The Brimsey family had made their fortune in spices; their second son had been pushed into politics by an ambitious father. It showed. Brimsey moved like a man navigating a room full of furniture he might break.

  "Your Grace." He bowed, correctly if not gracefully. "This is... most irregular. The city has its own courts for matters of—"

  "A mob chased a man to my gates," Fran said. "That makes it my concern."

  "Yes, of course, I only meant—" Brimsey caught himself, started again. "The situation is... complicated. Master Hotham has served the city for many years. There have been complaints, yes, but complaints are common in his profession. Tax collectors are rarely loved."

  "There's a difference between disliked and hunted through the streets."

  Brimsey winced. "Your Grace, if I may be direct—the people are angry, and they need to see consequences. Swift consequences. If you were to render judgment today, publicly, it would go a long way toward—"

  "Toward what?" Fran leaned forward slightly. "Satisfying the mob? Giving them blood so they'll disperse quietly?"

  "I wouldn't put it quite so—"

  "I would." Fran held his gaze. "You want me to condemn this man without investigation, without witnesses, without due process—because it's convenient."

  Brimsey's mouth opened, closed. He looked to Merrowe, perhaps hoping for support from a fellow man of commerce. Merrowe studied the ceiling instead.

  "Bring in the speaker," Fran said.

  The crowd had chosen their representative. Fran wasn't sure what she'd expected—a guild leader, perhaps, or one of the older residents with standing in the community. What she got was a young man with mason's dust still clinging to his boots and fury burning in his eyes.

  He entered flanked by two guards, though "escorted" might have been generous. He was pulling against their grip before he'd cleared the threshold.

  "Get your hands off me—I'm not the criminal here!"

  "Release him," Fran said.

  The guards hesitated. Rhyve gave a slight nod, and they stepped back.

  The young man—Noll, as one of the guards called him—shook out his arms and glared around the hall. His gaze caught on Hotham first, and his whole body tensed.

  "You." He started forward. "You bastard, you think hiding behind the Duchess’ skirts will save you? After what you did to Eda? To Colm?"

  "Restrain yourself," Rhyve said sharply.

  "Restrain myself?" Noll wheeled on him. "That man has been bleeding the lower quarters dry for years. Taking bribes to look the other way. Pocketing half of what he collects. And when Herry died—when he fell from that gods-damned scaffolding and left a widow and four children—this bastard showed up three days later demanding payment. Three days! The body wasn't even—" His voice cracked. He swallowed hard, fists clenching. "Eda couldn't pay. So he had her arrested. And when Colm tried to stop it, he got thrown in irons too."

  "These are serious accusations," Olyan said. Her tone had shifted—still formal, but something underneath had softened. "Do you have evidence?"

  "Evidence?" Noll laughed bitterly. "Go down to the Copperway—or the Millstone district—and breathe the air! Ask the tanner whose kid went hungry after Hotham's 'fee'. Ask the widow whose heirloom he took as 'security'. We don't keep bloody ledgers of our misery! But who do you tell? Him?” He jabbed a finger at Hotham. “Or him?”—at Brimsey—“You think we get heard down there?”

  He turned to Fran then, and there was something almost challenging in his stare.

  "They say you're different,” he began. “The Duchess who came back from the dead. The healer who married her mage." He took a step closer. Rhyve shifted, but Fran raised a hand, stilling him. "They say you actually give a damn about common folk. So prove it. Don't give me pretty words. Instead—” He clenched his fists. “Do something—something that’s not just a fine and a slap on his wrist."

  He was close now. Close enough that Fran had to look up to meet his eyes. Close enough that Verren had gone pale and Rhyve's hand was white-knuckled on his sword.

  Fran didn't move.

  "What's your name?" she asked.

  "Noll. Oliver Lawson, if you want the full of it."

  "And the widow—Eda. Her husband was your master?"

  Something flickered in his expression. Grief, beneath the anger. "Herry Dawson. Best builder in Vartis. Taught me everything I know." He jerked his head toward the doorway. "His boy's out there. Jan. Twelve years old. Too scared to come in, but he followed me anyway. Wouldn't stay home."

  Fran absorbed this. A master builder, dead. A widow, arrested. A brother, imprisoned. An apprentice, grieving. A boy, twelve years old, waiting in the corridor.

  She looked at Hotham, who had gone very still.

  "Master Hotham. You've heard the accusations. Do you deny them?"

  "Your Grace, these are the ravings of an angry young man—"

  "Do you deny extorting bribes from the residents of the lower quarters?"

  "I have accepted... gifts. On occasion. As is customary—"

  "Do you deny keeping a portion of the taxes you collected for yourself?"

  A longer pause. "There may have been... discrepancies. In the accounting. But I assure you—"

  "Do you deny arresting Eda Dawson three days after her husband's death, knowing she could not pay?"

  Hotham's mouth worked. "The law—"

  "Answer the question."

  Silence.

  Fran tapped an irregular rhythm on the table. Once. Twice. Thinking. The only sound in the hall was the rasp of her fingernail on the oak. Then she rose from her seat. The movement was quiet, but it drew every eye in the hall.

  "Here is my judgment." Her voice carried to the far corners. "Odo Hotham will be held in proper custody pending a full investigation into his conduct. Every collection he has made in the past two years will be audited. Every family he has assessed will be interviewed. If evidence supports these accusations, he will face trial—a proper trial, with witnesses and testimony and the full weight of the law."

  She looked at Noll. "Eda Dawson and her brother will be released today. They are not criminals. They are victims."

  Noll's expression shifted. Not quite belief—not yet—but something loosening in his shoulders.

  "And," Fran continued, "this investigation will not stop with one man. If there is corruption in the tax collection system, I want to know how deep it runs. Who knew. Who looked the other way." Her gaze swept the room—touching Brimsey, who swallowed; touching Merrowe, whose neutral expression had grown fixed. "Everyone involved will answer for it. Lord or commoner. That's the law."

  She paused.

  "I know something about trials, Master Lawson. I'm facing one myself, in a few weeks. The difference between me and Master Hotham is that I didn't run. I didn't hide behind a mob or beg sanctuary at someone else's gates. I'm going to stand before my accusers and answer their charges, because that's what justice requires."

  She let that settle.

  "You came here expecting me to hand you a corpse or a dismissal. I'm giving you neither. I'm giving you the law, applied fairly, to everyone. That's the only thing I have to offer. Is it enough?"

  Noll stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he inclined his head.

  "We'll see," he said. "But... it's more than I expected."

  "Then we understand each other." Fran turned to Vandess, who had slipped in at some point and was standing near the door. "Sheriff. Please see that Master Hotham is secured properly. And send someone to release Eda Dawson and her brother. Personally, if you would. They've been through enough."

  Vandess nodded, something like approval in his weathered face. "Consider it done."

  The hall emptied slowly. Guards escorted Hotham out through a side door; Noll followed Vandess toward the main entrance, his step lighter than when he'd arrived. At the threshold, he paused and looked back at Jan—the boy had crept just inside the doorway, thin and silent, watching everything with wide eyes. Noll put a hand on his shoulder and steered him out.

  The Sheriff lingered a moment longer. "Your Grace." He kept his voice low. "I noticed Master Dekarios wasn't present. Is he well?"

  "Indisposed," Fran said, keeping her voice neutral, though something knotted in her stomach. "He's recovering from an injury."

  Vandess nodded slowly, asking nothing further. "I hope it’s nothing serious. Please give him my regards when he’s back on his feet." A pause. "That was well handled, Your Grace. The lower quarters will remember it."

  "Let's hope so."

  He inclined his head and turned to leave. Brimsey moved to follow—

  "Lord Mayor."

  Brimsey froze mid-step. After a moment he turned, hope dying in his eyes.

  "I expect full collaboration from you and the city council on this investigation," Fran said. "A preliminary report on my desk in ten days. Names, accounts, anything your office has on Hotham's collections. Is that clear?"

  "Your Grace, the city's records are extensive, and ten days is—"

  "Then I suggest you start tonight."

  Brimsey swallowed. "I'll need more clerks. And access to the ducal archives, if I'm to cross-reference properly."

  "You'll have them. Lady Velgrin and Master Terven will offer all the assistance you’ll need." Fran held his gaze. "You're not being punished, Lord Mayor. You're being given a chance to clean your own house before I do it for you."

  The words landed. Brimsey straightened slightly, some of the steadiness returning to his voice. "Then I suggest we start with the Copperway collections. That's where the worst of the complaints have come from." He paused. "And Your Grace? You might want to look at the bridge tolls as well. Hotham's brother-in-law runs them."

  "Then look at those also." She paused. "Thank you, Lord Mayor. You can go."

  After Brimsey had left, Fran turned to her own council. Thorne had emerged from his shadow by the window; Olyan was setting down her quill; Rhyve stood impassive as stone. Merrowe and Merovein remained where they'd been throughout—one by the wall, one at the table.

  "Lord Merrowe. Master Merovein." Both men straightened. "This investigation will proceed on two levels. The city will examine its own collection procedures. But the duchy will do the same. I want to know if Hotham is an outlier or a symptom. Pull records from every tax collector in Foher. Cross-reference complaints, discrepancies, anything that doesn't add up."

  "Your Grace," Merrowe began carefully, "an audit of that scale will take—"

  "I expect preliminary results before I leave for Velarith," Fran continued. "Not complete—I understand the scope—but enough to know if this is isolated or systemic. Can you do that?"

  Merovein nodded slowly. "We can, Your Grace."

  "Good." Fran paused. "And understand this: until this investigation concludes, both of your offices are under audit as well. I need to know how this was missed. Who knew. Who should have known. Who looked the other way."

  Merrowe's jaw tightened. "Your Grace, I assure you—"

  "I'm not making accusations," Fran said. "I'm establishing standards. If you're clean, the audit will show it. If you're not..." She let the sentence hang.

  Merrowe nodded stiffly. Merovein simply said, "Understood, Your Grace," and made a note in his ledger. If the scrutiny stung—or if he was simply relieved to be dealing with numbers instead of treason—he didn't show it.

  "That's all for now," Fran said. "Thank you."

  They filed out—Olyan gathering her papers, Thorne falling into step with Rhyve, Merrowe and Merovein leaving together in pointed silence. The great hall settled into stillness.

  Fran allowed herself one breath. Two. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. A headache was building behind them.

  The door opened again. Veylen stepped through, his expression carefully neutral in the way that meant something had happened.

  "Your Grace. Lord Marent Voshar has arrived at the palace." A pause. "He's requesting an audience at your earliest convenience."

  Fran stared at him.

  Of course he is.

  "Tell him I'll receive him within the hour," she said. "And send for fresh tea. It's going to be a long afternoon."