the balcony door and paused. The hounds rose from their sleep and crowded around Tamas’s legs. He gave Olem a look.
“Sir?”
“You’re also supposed to get the door for me.”
“Right. Sorry, sir. This might take me a while to get used to.”
“Me too,” Tamas said.
Olem held the door for Tamas. The hounds hurried in ahead of him, noses to the floor. The room was near-silent despite the growing volume of voices in the Garden. Running on days without sleep, Tamas found the silence soothing.
He was in a grand office, if a room so big could be called that. Most houses could fit inside. It had been the king’s, a quiet place for him to study or review decisions by the House of Nobles. Like everything else that required a hair of a brain or a single krana’s care for how the country was run, the room had remained vacant for the entirety of Manhouch’s reign—though Tamas had it on good authority that Manhouch lent it to his favorite mistress last year, before his advisers found out.
Ricard Tumblar stood over a table of refreshments, picking through a stack of sugar cakes for the best ones. He was a handsome man despite his receding hairline, with short brown hair and full features, and lines in the corners of his mouth from smiling too much. He wore a costly suit made out of some animal hair from eastern Gurla, and his beard was worn long in Fatrastan style. A hat and cane of equally eclectic and expensive taste rested by the door.
Ricard controlled Adopest’s only workers’ union and of all of Tamas’s council of coconspirators; he was the only one that could provide pleasant company for longer than a few minutes. Hrusch and Pitlaugh sniffed at him till he gave them each a sugar cake. The dogs took their prizes and retreated to the window divan.
Tamas sighed. He hated it when people fed them. They wouldn’t shit right for a week.
“Help yourself,” Tamas said.
Ricard grinned at him. “Thank you, I will.” He popped a sugar cake in his mouth and spoke around a mouthful. “You did it, old boy. I couldn’t believe it, but you did it.”
“Not quite,” Tamas said. “The executions must be carried out, the city brought to order; there will be riots and royalists, and I still have the Kez to deal with.”
“And a country to run,” Ricard added.
“Lucky for me, I’ll leave that to the council.”
Ricard rolled his eyes. “Lucky you indeed. I dread working with the rest of them. We need your balancing hand to keep us from each other’s throats.”
“I agree,” Ondraus said.
The reeve entered the room at a slow walk, cane in one hand, a thick ledger under the other arm. He crossed the room and tossed the ledger down on the king’s desk, then dropped down in the chair behind it. Tamas stifled a protest.
Ondraus opened the book. Tamas would have sworn dust rose from the thing. He stepped closer. It was an ancient tome, with gold-thread lettering stitched onto the front—a word in Old Deliv. Something about money, Tamas guessed. The pages themselves seemed almost black. Closer inspection revealed tiny writing—letters and numbers boxed off, written so densely as to require a looking glass to see the actual figures.
“The king’s treasury is empty,” Ondraus announced. He produced a looking glass from his pocket and set it on the page, peering through it as he perused a few numbers at random.
Ricard inhaled sharply, choking on a sugar cake.
Tamas stared at the reeve. “How?”
“I haven’t seen this thing since the Iron King died,” Ondraus said, gesturing at the tome. “It records every transaction made in the name of the crown for the last hundred years, to the krana. It’s been in the hands of Manhouch’s personal accountants since he took the throne. They kept solid records; that’s the best I can say for them. According to this, there’s not a krana in the king’s treasury.”
Tamas made a fist to stop his hands from shaking. How would he pay his soldiers? How would he feed the poor and bankroll the police forces? Tamas needed hundreds of millions—he’d hoped for at least tens.
“Taxes,” Ondraus said, closing the ledger with a thump. “We’ll have to raise taxes first thing.”
“No,” Tamas said. “You know that’s not an option. If we replace Manhouch with even higher taxes, stricter control, then it’ll be our heads in a basket within a year.”
“Why should we raise the taxes?” Arch-Diocel Charlemund swept into the room, long,