Chapter 649: Black Money
“Thank you. I’ll call on you again tonight.”
Yorko’s jaw dropped. He looked from Otto to Hill and back again. They’d discussed everything in the room except him — the actual Ambassador of Graycastle, the man whose neck was nominally at risk in this arrangement. The moment Otto left, Yorko turned to Hill with the full weight of his grievances lined up and ready.
Hill said: “This is also what His Majesty wants.”
The grievances dissolved before he could deliver the first one. Yorko pressed his hand to his forehead. “Are you certain? I represent the Kingdom of Graycastle. If Appen Moya discovers I’m transporting a witch, every diplomatic gain we’ve made goes up in smoke. What then?”
“Appen won’t focus on this kind of detail.” Hill’s tone was the patient one he used when he’d already made up his mind. “And even if he does — witches matter more than the alliance.” He paused. “I’ve already had my men check the refugee screenings for witches. None detected. Either they aren’t hiding among the refugees, or they’ve blended so completely that even our people can’t find them. Either way — if you can bring a witch to His Majesty, the reward will be substantial. He values them greatly.”
Yorko acquiesced with a sullen nod and began the interior work of accepting it.
It’s just another form of exploration, he told himself. A different venue. An unfamiliar crowd. He was genuinely curious, now that he applied himself to curiosity: what kind of merchandise required an exhibition that Denise Payton — a reputable and well-connected merchant — wasn’t qualified to attend?
Otto arrived at the entrance punctually that evening.
The coach waiting for them bore no emblem. Its interior was furnished with thick fur rugs and — suspended from the ceiling on two iron rings — a pair of chains with cuffs at the ends. Yorko understood their purpose without asking.
“Unusual taste,” he said.
Otto went red. “It’s not mine. This kind of carriage is practical when you need to restrain someone discreetly.”
“Of course.” Yorko stroked the cuffs with two fingers. “Can I borrow it for a few days after this business is over?”
“Fifty silver royals a day. Includes the coachman.”
The coach rolled west. Otto lay back against the fur rug and closed his eyes; Yorko watched the city give way to open road and then to darkening countryside. An hour, Otto had said. After the city gate, the sun dropped and the last light vanished into the fields.
Yorko recalculated. “We can’t return to the king’s city tonight — the gates close at sundown.”
“‘Black Money’ provides food and accommodation.” Otto didn’t open his eyes. “Everything you’d find in the city, they supply.”
“Sounds like a market.”
“Underground, and more selective.”
The venue was unremarkable from the road: an ordinary yard, jagged fencing, a mud-and-straw house at the center, farmland behind it with harvested wheat-straw piled at intervals across the ground. What distinguished it was the torches — dozens of them planted across the fields, visible from the road. Guards. Nobody torched the yard of a civilian home.
The carriage was checked at the gate. Otto and his men remained in the yard. A guide — a young woman in a mask — led Yorko alone down a wooden staircase into a man-made tunnel and out into a natural limestone cave.
The cave was roughly half the size of the main square in the king’s city. Stalactites overhung the ceiling; the floor had been cut flat and tiled. Small caves lined the walls on either side, each pitch-dark, leading somewhere invisible. The main chamber was already crowded with guests waiting for the exhibition to begin, their voices a low murmur against the stone.
Then, from above: the metallic scraping of iron cables being lowered.
Strange stones hung at the end of each cable — and as they descended, they poured light into the cave. Not torchlight. Something brighter and cleaner, radiating soft and steady. In a moment the murmuring stopped. The torches seemed dim by comparison. The stage at the far end of the cave became clearly visible.
Yorko blinked in the sudden brightness.
“What are those?” he asked.
“Several names,” his guide said softly. She’d arranged herself beside him with the practiced ease of someone trained for exactly this — close enough to be intimate, light enough to be undemanding. “Sun Stone, Light Crystal. Here we prefer Magic Stone, since they’re said to come from demons’ lairs. They were sold at auction once — two thousand to three thousand gold royals each.” She tilted her head. “They aren’t on tonight’s list. Is this your first time attending, Sir?”
“More or less,” Yorko said. Every stone hanging in the cave was worth two or three thousand gold royals. He counted them without meaning to. Well over ten thousand, just for the lighting.
His guide drew close. “Every first-time guest reacts the same way,” she said near his ear. “This is part of how ‘Black Money’ demonstrates its reach. Don’t let it unsettle you.”
Yorko resolved not to be unsettled. He wrapped an arm around her waist and concentrated on the stage.
He missed the first two auction rounds while reorienting himself.
The early lots, he’d learned from attending exhibitions with Denise, were always the secondary merchandise. The valuable items came later. He settled in to wait.
The bidding stirred into life with the first human product.
A young woman walked onto the stage — plain, unremarkable, except for her skin, which was exceptional. She wore garments only nobles could afford, and her bearing was not the bearing of a slave. It was the bearing of someone who’d been made to walk forward.
“Is this a noble dressed as a slave to raise the price?” Yorko asked his guide.
“Not a slave dressed as a noble,” she said softly. “A noble who has become a slave.”
He went still.
“She’s a true noble,” the guide continued. “Not a distant relation or a branch line. A legitimate heir of a significant family.”
The host’s voice carried over the crowd: “Aphnie Tanfek — daughter of the Earl of Rubble Woods, Kingdom of Wolfheart. Her father fell in battle against the church, making her the legal successor to the Tanfek earldom. A family name dating back three hundred years. But I suspect the jade incident of twenty years ago is more memorable to many of you. Starting bid: three hundred gold royals. Please feel free to begin.”
“Three hundred ten.”
“Three hundred fifty.”
“Four hundred.”
“You’re insane,” Yorko said under his breath. He meant all of them. “Selling a noble as a slave is a capital offense in any kingdom. The entire aristocracy will treat it as an attack on their bloodline.”
That unwritten law had held for centuries: noble blood was protected even in defeat. Ransom, not slavery. Even conquered families kept their lineage intact, because lineage was the foundation of everything the nobility was built on. An exhibition that openly auctioned noble heirs was not merely underground — it was a declaration of war on the concept of aristocracy itself.
The guide spread her hands. “Only if someone talks about it. ‘Black Money’ isn’t responsible for the church having destroyed these families in the first place. The auction merely provides an opportunity for — old grievances.”
“The jade incident,” Yorko said slowly. “So the bidders are people the Tanfek family wronged twenty years ago?”
The guide’s polished smile was answer enough.
The next several lots were all nobles — from Everwinter and Wolfheart both, men and women alike. Titles, histories, lineages sold in order. The male nobles commanded a wider age range and more interest; the women merchants present, Yorko observed, tended to prefer those with administrative experience over young heirs. They were buying competence, not beauty.
He understood now why this had to be underground.
He also understood the guest selection criteria: they weren’t simply screening for wealth or background. They were screening for people who were actively interested in purchasing. Everyone in this cave was, in the organizers’ eyes, a potential buyer and therefore a potential accomplice. It was the same logic that kept a secret by sharing it only with those who had something to lose if it got out.
The tenth lot was the witch.
She came onto the stage in tight bondage — wrists and ankles both — and even so was visibly more striking than any of the noble women who had preceded her. Dark brunette hair fell loose and tangled over her shoulders. A burlap shift, thin enough that the whip marks on her arms and feet were readable through it. Her frame was gaunt. Her face, despite everything, had a particular quality Yorko couldn’t quite name — something in the structure of it, the way the features held together — that made looking at her feel like catching a glimpse of something that wasn’t meant for ordinary viewing.
“A nameless refugee witch from the Kingdom of Wolfheart,” the host announced. “She heals herself using demonic power. Thanks to the vigilance of citizens, we’ve obtained a genuine rarity. A self-healing witch — she can be used in any way you choose, and she’ll recover. If you’re concerned about handling her, ‘Black Money’ offers containment services. Starting bid: five hundred gold royals.”
“Five ten.”
“Five sixty.”
“Six hundred.”
Yorko held back. Otto had estimated the final price at seven or eight hundred — below what a witch had cost a few years ago. He needed to wait for the pace to slow before entering. You wasted money bidding early; you waited until the marginal buyer had dropped out and only the committed ones remained.
The price crossed eight hundred.
Then a thousand.
Yorko’s palm was sweating. The bidding showed no sign of slowing.