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Chapter 654: The Compensation of Black Money

“Hey.” Yorko nudged No. 76 with his free foot. “Are you all right?”

She didn’t respond.

He sighed, worked himself close enough to reach the coat on the floor with his mouth, and drew it across both of them.

Forget the romantic evening. One inconvenient night — that’s all this is.

After the night he’d had, he was surprised to find himself almost calm. The underground auction. Four thousand gold royals spent on a witch. The public attention. The attack. Over the course of a single evening, he’d accumulated more experience than in all his previous twenty-some years. There was something almost pleasurable about that, now that the immediate danger had passed.

Almost. He would never voluntarily repeat it.

He slept badly. By the time a Black Money servant found them, it was already noon of the following day.

He was moved quickly to a spacious room with a proper bed. Soft bread appeared, and freshly squeezed juice, and attentive maids who examined him with thorough professionalism — head to heels, and everything between. Otto Luoxi, who had been pacing anxiously outside the limestone caves, was brought in at Yorko’s request.

“What happened?” Otto was at his side before he’d settled. “I heard you were injured.”

Yorko dismissed the Black Money servants first. Then, with the deliberate pacing of a man who knew the value of a good complaint, he laid the whole story out — the competing bidder, the attack, the night chained to a wall, No. 76’s bloody head, the witches’ escape.

“I was nearly killed because of you,” he concluded, with feeling. “So close. And the only reason I survived is because they could see I’d treated that witch with genuine kindness. Anyone else, they’d have left for dead.”

Complaining was an art form Yorko had cultivated for years. Properly deployed, it couldn’t always produce tangible benefits, but it reliably produced guilt — and guilt could be banked against the future. Otto, he noted, was already looking quite uncomfortable.

“This was my negligence,” Otto said. “I’ll compensate you properly when we return.”

“What about the 4,000 gold royals?”

“The witch escaped from your room — that’s Black Money’s territory, their failure of security. I doubt they’ll deduct the auction price.”

“So you’ve saved the witch and preserved the Black Letter both.” Yorko smiled. “A profitable evening for you.”

“Black Letters are remade for each exhibition,” Otto said, with a strained expression. “I can’t say whether it was wasted, exactly. But yes — we saved the gold royals.”

Yorko remembered something No. 76 had said to him in the passage.

500 gold royals, paid to Black Money.

Sir, do you want to buy me?

500 was a rational number compared to 4,000. And Otto was already in a compensatory mood.

He was clearing his throat, preparing to raise the subject, when the bedroom door opened.

The man who entered wore a silver mask and moved with the easy authority of someone accustomed to being received. Dark brown hair threaded with white, a silk robe, and a black dragon head emblem prominent on his chest. Two attendants followed at a distance.

“I manage the exhibition,” he said, with a small bow. “Call me Silvermask. Black Money offers its apologies for the incident. Fortunately you were not seriously hurt. We’ve begun investigating how the witch departed, and we’ll inform you when she’s located. The auction settlement will not be deducted from the Black Letter — unless you still want her when we find her.”

“I see.” Yorko chose his role carefully: the man who had purchased the witch, not the ambassador running Otto’s errand. “Don’t give her to anyone but me. Lot 10 remains valid.”

“As you wish.”

“I’m also curious how the attacker got in.”

“The villains hijacked other guests arriving at an outskirt house. Two other invitation-holders were robbed of their Black Letters and left bound. This was planned in advance.” Silvermask tilted his head. “We didn’t expect the witch to have accomplices willing to operate under His Majesty Appen Moya’s current search. Did the person who accosted you leave any information?”

“She fled when I mentioned I was the Ambassador of Graycastle.” Yorko spread his hands. “But I’d ask you to consider your entry verification. If a Black Letter is all it takes to walk in, this can’t be the first time someone has borrowed one.”

“You raise a fair point,” Silvermask said, and his smile was audible behind the mask. “But that’s also part of Black Money’s appeal. Our guests prefer anonymity over stringent identity checks, even knowing the associated risks. When we issue a Black Letter, we consider the holder carefully — their interest in it, their capacity for discretion. However they obtained theirs, those two guests won’t receive a second invitation.”

“All right.” Yorko shifted. “One more thing — how did she leave? The passage from the cave to the yard has guards throughout. She was carrying an injured woman. Is it possible they’re still inside, waiting?”

Silvermask shook his head. “They exited through a ventilation shaft. Several iron bars were melted through, consistent with a witch’s ability.”

So Annie had prepared an exit before she ever arrived. And she hadn’t come alone. Otto’s entire plan — the 4,000 gold royals, the Black Letter, the careful weeks of positioning — had been rendered irrelevant by a witch with fire and a woman who didn’t trust strangers.

“Nothing to be done about that, then,” Yorko said. He let a pause develop, then added, with the practiced tone of a passing thought: “How is my guide recovering?”

“She’ll be disciplined. A guide is responsible for the safety of her guest. She’s no longer qualified for the position.”

“Could I see her?”

A pause. “You wish to punish her personally?”

“No.” Yorko glanced at Otto. “I want to buy her.”

“But she’s currently a prisoner of Black Money,” Silvermask said, hesitant.

“500 gold royals. Charged to the Black Letter.”

“Wait — Mr. Ambassador?” Otto looked at him. “What guide?”

Yorko pressed Otto’s hand to silence him.

Silvermask was quiet for a moment.

“If you insist,” he said at last, “we’ll give No. 76 to you as a gift.”

“A gift?”

“Since she can no longer function as a guide, placing her with you is a reasonable outcome. Consider it Black Money’s formal compensation for the accident.” Another small bow. “I hope we have the opportunity to meet here again.”

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