Page 161 of Given to the Black King

Perr has added tabs.

“Road labor,” he says, pointing. “One third of the winter tribute worked off. Irrigation cut ahead of schedule. Child ration rolls reconciled against the garrison books.”

“How many losses?”

“None.”

I look up.

“None?”

“No child on the winter roll died.” His mouth twitches. “The Lady of Vessel has included a note stating this does not make His Majesty kind.”

Torgan grunts from the throne.

“Correct.”

Perr turns the page.

“Her elder grandson corrected two of the crown auditors in red ink.”

Torgan takes the report from me.

He reads the corrections.

Once.

Again.

“Send him a better pen.”

Perr writes it down immediately.

I look at my husband.

He looks back.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

The bond carries my satisfaction into him.

He dislikes being caught doing something decent.

The gold band rings under the mason’s hammer.

One clean strike.

The sound travels through the hall.

The throne is repaired by noon.

The southern delegation reaches the hold three days later with twelve orchard saplings, a priest, a new minister, and an alarming quantity of ceremonial ribbon.

I meet them in the sheltered court.

The winter cherries are in bloom. White petals scatter over black stone. Beside them, twelve open holes wait in two straight rows.