Page 53 of Given to the Black King

“The captain burned my grain.”

The stroke of the executioner’s blade comes back so clearly that my fingers tighten around the edge of the ledger. “He is also dead. How many children do you intend to punish for two dead men?”

His eyes harden.

“Careful, Envoy.”

My stomach turns again at the memory of the block. I keep my voice level. “You were careful. You knew every one of the eleven names. You knew which children your garrison fed. So do the rest of the count.”

The claw beside the figures extends another inch. Then a second.

My body registers the claws despite the blood still caught in my memory. Heat sparks low, unwelcome and undeniable.

He smells it. His gaze flicks to my mouth and returns to the page.

I tap the projected spring yield. “A hungry town smuggles. It hides grain. It opens the gate for whoever promises food. A town that works off its debt repairs your road, increases its harvest, and learns that surrender terms mean something.”

Ghenn bends over the figures. “The widow’s grandsons could sit with the auditors. They learn the books and give us two sets of eyes in Vessel.”

“They are not hostages,” I say.

Torgan looks at me.

I let out a breath. “They are not harmed hostages.”

He sends a guard to bring the widow back from the outer hall. When Ghenn explains the proposal, she studies us all in turn.

“They come home every night,” she says. “And neither boy is punished for finding an error.”

“Agreed,” Torgan says.

Only then does she nod.

Ghenn’s mouth twitches. Perr lowers his face over the page to hide his own.

Torgan finally pulls the labor schedule toward him. The claw points scrape lightly over the paper without tearing it.

“Half the tribute worked off.”

“One third.”

“Children under ten fed.”

“All children.” I push the ration roll across the final inch between us. His eyes drop to the smallest names.

“Older children may take paid half-days if their families choose.”

“Their wages count against the household debt,” Ghenn says. He marks the concession with one blunt finger.

Perr’s pen waits above the page.

“No interest on seed for one year. Ordinary rate after.”

“Agreed.”

He taps one claw beside the carriage-cost figure. “My wagons take five percent.”

“Three.”