CH1090 · Rewrite
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Chapter 1090: An Unexpected Visitor

The wagon train groaned to a halt in front of the lord’s mansion in Thorn Town, and the steward climbed down from the footboard already shouting.

“Off! All of you, move!” The horsewhip cracked the air near enough to several heads that no one needed a second instruction. “You answer whatever the lord asks you. You hold your tongues otherwise. You understand me?”

The passengers descended in a shuffling line, wrists lashed together by rope, pale and underfed, wearing what they’d been wearing when someone had decided their freedom was a transferable commodity. Slaves. Common stock. The worst rank.

Thorn Town at the foot of Cage Mountain had been a quiet place a month ago. Now it was not. The Graycastle exploration team had arrived first, then the caravans, then the emissary delegations from a dozen lords who had heard something valuable was being dug out of this particular stretch of ground. Hotels were full; the overflow had pitched tents and thrown up plank barracks on the edges of town. The town was expanding in real time, the way a fire expands — not from a decision, but from accumulated heat.

Forint Sheffield tracked Marl Tokat’s eyes as the prisoners filed out, his own hands working against each other in the way of a man who has spent a career selling things and cannot quite locate the off switch.

“Sir Marl — what do you think of this selection? All healthy, no visible defects. Personally picked from the prison, the best available. They look thin, yes, but the character is there. Feed them for two weeks and they’ll do anything you ask.”

“Enough.” Marl waved the pitch aside. He was large, easy in his movements, with the patience of a man who had grown up in comfort and found the world generally agreeable. One glance at Forint had told him everything he needed about the man’s relationship to the Sheffield family name. “I’m not in the market. Mr. Sean is. Captain of His Majesty of Graycastle’s Imperial Guard.” A pause. “I’d adjust your approach.”

“Of course, of course.” Forint bowed at Sean with the urgency of a man rerouting a river. “I wasn’t made aware that the true purchaser—”

“It’s fine,” Sean said, already moving down the prisoner line, his eyes doing the real work of the assessment. Slower than the King of Dawn’s picks. Thinner. But there were bodies here and bodies were what the excavation at the Temple of the Cursed needed; he had learned to grade his preferences against the supply available.

He was halfway down the line when one of the prisoners broke from the queue — restricted to a half-kneel by the rope at his wrist, his voice pushed past its limits.

“Sir — please. I’m wrongfully accused. Let me go, please—”

The steward’s face went red. The whip hand twitched.

Sean stopped in front of the man. “Wrongfully accused of what?”

“I stole some chickens.” Breathless, urgent. “From my neighbor. In Maplesong — that’s flogging or banishment, not this. Not—” He looked at the rope around his wrist with an expression that had not yet finished being surprised. “Not whatever this is.”

Sean turned to Forint.

Forint was already composing his answer. “Technically accurate, sir. However — the day before Earl Sheffield received the summons from the King of Dawn, he made certain legal adjustments. Increased penalty thresholds, across all crime categories. A necessary measure, given the refugee situation and the rise in civil disorder. Theft is theft. If you permit a man to steal chickens today—”

“A death sentence,” the prisoner said. “For chickens.”

“—his neighbor may starve tomorrow,” Forint continued without breaking stride. “The law must carry credible weight. The Earl’s position is entirely defensible.”

The prisoner looked at Sean the way drowning men look at passing boats.

Sean said: “You committed a crime. The sentence is what it is.” He let it land, then: “But you don’t have to die for it.” He raised his voice for the whole line. “You’ve all heard by now — ten years of labor, whatever the offense, and you walk free. The King of Graycastle and the King of Dawn have both made this promise. Don’t run. Don’t make this your last chance.”

He signaled his men. The prisoners moved.

Forint materialized at his elbow, the smile resettling into place like water finding level. “I knew you’d take them all. One gold royal per head, that’s one hundred and six total, per our contract—”

“Correct.” Sean was already turning. “Go to the mansion. Someone there will receive payment.”

“Excellent, sir, excellent—”

“One more thing.” Sean said it to Forint’s turned back, and the man stopped.

“Sir?”

“I don’t care what the Earl amended the day before or after his summons.” No heat in it. The tone of someone stating tolerances. “Our contract specifies that every prisoner receives disclosure — the purpose of the assignment, the conditions, the term. If I see another man in that line who doesn’t know he’s on a death sentence until he’s already here, I deduct from payment. Per occurrence.”

Forint’s oily composure rippled. He collected it. “I understand. More care, next time.”

He left.

Marl watched him go. “You’re careful,” he said, not quite approvingly, not quite not.

“I’m doing my job.”

“Hm.” Marl surveyed the expanded town — the tents, the construction, the various flags of various lords planted in various corners. “Your king apparently brings that same care to purchasing condemned prisoners. My brother Otto says he’s extraordinary — around my age, but already remarkable. Is it studied or native? A man can’t be both philanthropist and king and usually has to choose between them.” He looked at Sean with the interest of someone who genuinely wanted the answer. “Now I want to meet him.”

“That’s not difficult,” Sean said. “The Tokat family is among the three great noble houses. Access to the King of Graycastle isn’t an obstacle for you.” He paused a half-beat. “I’d suggest, though, that you not say that particular thing to his face.”

“Which thing?”

“That a man can’t be both philanthropist and king.”

Marl grinned and spread his hands. “You’re no fun.”

Sean was already moving — toward the excavation site, toward the checkpoint where the First Army held the perimeter around the dig — when his soldier appeared from between two tents at a fast walk.

“Sir. Someone at the gate requesting you specifically. Claims to know where the treasure is.”

Sean stopped walking. He did not turn around. “I told you. Solid leads only. I don’t want to hear from treasure hunters.”

“He won’t leave.” The soldier kept his voice flat, relaying without editorializing. “He says he’s one of the last survivors out of Hermes. He also says he knows where the remaining Church members are hiding. We have him in holding.”

Hermes. The Church.

Sean turned.

“I’ll go.”

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