Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 508: The Game

“Your Majesty, I—I don’t understand.” Marquis Wyke pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. He was sweating through his collar. “What do you mean, ‘out of the game’?”

“Those who are eliminated will be hanged, or banished from the kingdom, or sentenced to hard labor in the mines. Alternatively, all their assets will be confiscated.” Roland said this the way one explains rules to a child who has asked a simple question. “The penalties conform to royal law. It’s all quite fair.”

“No—I have served this royal family faithfully since your father’s reign. You cannot simply—”

“I am the king. I can.” Roland spoke over him without raising his voice. “Don’t panic yet. Those who answer all ten questions correctly will be promoted or rewarded. A game with only punishments becomes tedious. I like balance.”

“I can’t accept this.” Sir Pilaw had recovered enough from his initial shock to locate his dignity. “Punishments of this severity should be ordered through the court, through process, through—” He turned toward the door.

It was closed. Two soldiers flanked it, expressionless, unhurried.

“I’m not asking for your opinion, Sir Pilaw,” Roland said. “And if you insist on withdrawing from the game, I’ll add one more penalty to the options.” He made the gesture—two fingers raised, one curled into the thumb, the unmistakable shape of a weapon’s hammer. “A much faster one.”

The nobles stepped backward in unison. The soldiers in the room raised their rifles with the calm of men who had spent the morning doing much harder things and found this easy.

“So. First question.” Roland stood and clapped his hands once—the sound crisp in the suddenly silent hall. “Were you involved in compelling refugees to invade the Western Region? Prime Minister—you first.”

Marquis Wyke was quiet for three full seconds. Then: “I followed Timothy’s order to recruit refugees from the Eastern Region and the Southern Territory. But I did not participate in the other matter you mentioned.”

Roland felt Nightingale’s hand—a light pressure on his right shoulder. The signal.

“I’m sorry,” Roland said. “I told you: one honest answer, one chance.” He waved his hand toward the door. “Take him to the cells beneath the hall.”

“Your Majesty, what I said is true—”

“We both know that isn’t entirely accurate.” He watched the Prime Minister be led out and turned back to the remaining nobles. “If you’re clever, you’ve already understood that lying does you no good. I can tell whether you’re telling the truth.”

No one spoke. The silence had a specific quality—the silence of people rearranging their understanding of the room they were standing in.

“If no one volunteers, I’ll call on you by name.” Roland looked at the Minister of Justice. “Sir Pilaw.”

It went the way he had intended.

He had come in needing to cut a Gordian knot—rapidly separate those who had been complicit in Timothy’s schemes from those who had merely survived them, so the city could begin returning to function. Post-war management would transfer to City Hall personnel he had trained and trusted; what remained of the local noble network and the Black Street gangs were problems for Theo. The trial-game was the most efficient instrument Roland had for the specific work of sorting quickly and fairly under time pressure.

He did not plan to absorb King’s City into Neverwinter’s administrative structure—it was too far, too large, too historically independent. Nor would he install another personal agent to govern it. He simply did not have the strength for either option after a year of war. What he needed was a functional local government staffed by people who had not been Timothy’s willing instruments, and who could be held to account if they became problems later.

After nine questions, fewer than ten of the original fifty-odd nobles remained in the hall. The attrition rate did not surprise him. Timothy had been actively purging the uncertain and the principled—anyone who questioned the cause of King Wimbledon III’s death or declined to endorse the usurpation had been removed years ago. What remained was largely the genuinely complicit.

What did surprise him was that seven of the survivors were from City Hall positions that had not touched Timothy’s schemes at all—clean by proximity rather than by active choice, but clean enough.

“Last question,” Roland said. “Have you ever bullied or oppressed the people? Including witches.”

The remaining nobles looked at each other.

“Your Majesty, I am guilty.” One of them—a middle-aged man with ink stains on his cuffs—went to his knees, sweating. “I ordered my men to beat a civilian because he dirtied my trousers. I didn’t kill him. I just beat him.”

“I had a secret relationship with a shopkeeper’s daughter,” said another. “But she approached me first.”

“My housekeeper slept with my wife while I was hunting,” a third said, his voice strangled with competing feelings. “I cut off his—I didn’t send him to court, I just—he was a housekeeper, Your Majesty, surely—”

Roland held himself very still. He had some experience with keeping a straight face; he deployed it now. These were not crimes by the standards of the nobility—these men were confessing to things they would not ordinarily have considered confessing to, because they had seen a Marquis dragged out of the room for lying and they did not know exactly where Roland’s detection ended. The fear was making them honest in areas they had never intended to be honest.

When the answers finished, Roland cleared his throat. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” they said.

Nightingale’s hand touched his left shoulder. He nodded. “Congratulations. You’ve passed.”

The relief in the room was audible—a collective exhale that changed the quality of the air.

“I said the winners would be rewarded, and I keep my word.” Roland looked at the two people standing at the back of the room who had answered “No” consistently to every question, and whose “No”s had all been approved by Nightingale’s touch. “You two—your names and positions.”

“Alva Taber, Your Majesty.” A thin young man. “I manage the star image office—astronomical records, calendar notation.”

“Blanche Orlando.” A woman, composed, somewhere in her middle years. “Ceremonial officer.”

That explains it. People in those positions had no mechanism for corruption even if they’d wanted it—the star images didn’t offer bribes, and ceremony required only punctuality and precision. They were genuinely clean because the jobs had never given them a chance to be otherwise. Still: clean hands were clean hands.

“You may leave the palace now. I’ll send for you once I’ve settled a few matters with my family.” He paused and let the word land. “My way of governing will be different from my father’s and Timothy’s. You’ll see that soon. And remember what got you through today—” He looked at all of them. “Keep it up. This won’t be the last game we play.”

They withdrew. Roland descended from the throne and walked with Nightingale toward the basement stairs.

Time to meet his dear brother.

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