Inspector Vance opened his eyes and immediately wished he was dead.
His head was pounding with the force of a battering ram. His mouth tasted like a horrific mixture of battery acid, old garlic, and wet dog. He tried to sit up, but the room spun violently. He was lying on a lumpy, lice-infested straw mattress in one of Ravenhold's guest chambers.
Vance groaned, reaching into his velvet coat.
His hands frantically patted the luxurious fabric. His Royal per diem pouch—a heavy leather bag containing enough silver to buy a small farm—was completely empty. He didn't even have a single copper penny left.
The memories of the last three days hit him like a physical blow.
He remembered the salty bread. He remembered the desperate, burning thirst. And then, he remembered the Artisanal Sour. He had chugged pitcher after pitcher of the spoiled mead, weeping openly while a stunningly muscular, sweaty woman in a shredded dress named Sienna kept asking if he wanted to "upgrade to the premium clay cup."
He had upgraded every single time.
Vance pushed himself up, leaning against the cold stone wall. He pressed his perfumed handkerchief to his nose, but even the lavender couldn't mask the smell of his own sour-mead sweat.
His elitist brain, which had assumed Turnip-Peasants were biologically incapable of math, was fundamentally shattered.
"He is not a savage," Vance whispered in horror, staring at his empty coin purse. "He is a predator."
Vance stumbled over to a crude wooden desk in the corner of the room. His hands were shaking from the hangover as he grabbed a piece of parchment and a charcoal stick. He had to write his official audit report to King Alden.
He thought about the broken pigeon message the King had received. Poison mud water. Strips women. Takes all merchant silver. Suddenly, it all made terrifying, brilliant sense to the Inspector.
Your Grace, Vance wrote frantically, the charcoal snapping against the parchment. The intelligence was entirely misunderstood. Lord Elaric Voss is not funding a mercenary rebellion. He is conducting an advanced, highly classified psychological warfare campaign against the Northern Trade Route.
Vance paused to violently dry-heave into a wooden bucket, then went back to writing.
There is no dark magic. The 'poison water' is simply a biological weapon he uses to incapacitate the merchants' critical thinking skills. By exposing the bare knees of his female operatives, he induces a state of primal shock in the targets, causing them to willingly surrender their entire life savings for a piece of salted bread.
Vance wiped a tear of pure, terrified awe from his eye.
Lord Voss is a tactical mastermind. He is bleeding the merchant class dry. If we attempt to tax him, we will disrupt his cover and the merchants will flee. I strongly recommend a zero-percent tax rate on Ravenhold Keep. Let this beautiful, dark monster continue his work for the Crown. I am returning to the Capital immediately. I require a loan.
Vance sealed the letter, grabbed his empty silk coat, and practically sprinted out of the Keep, terrified that Elara might try to sell him breakfast.
Down in the courtyard, I was drinking a cup of warm water and watching the absolute chaos of my new security policy.
Thorne had taken my "bag check" order and turned it into a medieval TSA checkpoint.
He had set up a massive wooden barricade right at the Keep's main gates. Four heavily armored guards stood in a line. A massive line of wealthy, freezing merchants was waiting to get into the OnlyMaids tavern, looking completely confused.
"Arms out! Feet apart!" Thorne bellowed, aggressively patting down a terrified spice trader from the east.
"I am just here for the sour mead, good sir!" the merchant squeaked as Thorne's heavy metal gauntlets checked his tunic for concealed weaponry.
"Silence, civilian!" Thorne barked. He grabbed a small, burlap sack from the merchant's belt and dumped it onto a wooden table. A perfectly good wheel of imported cheese rolled out.
Thorne's eyes narrowed. He pointed a thick, armored finger at the cheese.
"Outside food!" Thorne roared, drawing his dagger. "A classic Shadow Syndicate smuggling tactic! You thought you could bypass the tavern's internal food supply? Confiscated!"
Thorne kicked the cheese into a massive pile of confiscated food sitting in the mud. There were cured meats, apples, and personal flasks of actual, good wine. The merchants were watching in absolute despair as their travel rations were stolen in the name of "counter-espionage."
"Next!" Thorne yelled.
I leaned against the stone wall, watching the pile of confiscated food grow. Willem the Steward stood next to me, clutching his ledger.
"My Lord," Willem whispered nervously, adjusting his spectacles. "Captain Thorne is robbing them blind before they even sit down. The merchants will riot."
"No, they won't, Willem," I grinned, taking a sip of my warm water. "They have already sunk three hours into waiting in that line. They are committed. Now, tell the kitchen boys to gather that confiscated cheese and meat."
Willem blinked. "To return it to them, Milord?"
"To chop it up and put it on a wooden board," I corrected him. "We are going to invent the 'Artisanal Charcuterie Board.' We will sell their own cheese back to them for five silver stags."
Willem stared at me. He opened his mouth to protest the absolute moral bankruptcy of my plan, but the sheer profit margin overwhelmed his medieval brain. He just sighed, opened his ledger, and began writing a new column for 'Confiscated Goods Resale.'
"Lord Elaric!"
I turned around. Elara and Sienna were jogging across the courtyard toward me.
They had just finished their morning shift setting up the heavy wooden tables. Because they had been lifting furniture, they were both breathing heavily. Their shortened wool dresses clung to their toned, athletic frames, and the freezing morning air made the heavy, sharp scent of their exertion even more intoxicating.
Elara stopped in front of me, putting her hands on her hips. She gave me a wide, predatory smile.
"The Inspector's carriage just fled down the mountain road, Milord," Elara reported, completely ignoring Thorne screaming at a merchant in the background. "He looked like he was going to cry. Did we pass the audit?"
"We passed with flying colors," I said, my eyes naturally dropping to the deep 'V' of her collar as she caught her breath. "The Crown is officially off our backs. Your silver is safe."
Sienna let out a cheer, her broad shoulders flexing. "Praise the Gods! We thought we were going to have to go back to eating boiled bark!"
"Never again," I promised, stepping closer to them. The combined body heat radiating off the two muscular maids was practically a space heater. "In fact, because you two did such a fantastic job dehydrating the Inspector last night... I think it's time for a performance bonus."
Elara's eyes lit up. "A bonus? Like... extra silver?"
"No," I said smoothly, reaching out and lightly tracing the frayed edge of Sienna's torn sleeve. "Like a mandatory, hour-long break in the Lord's private chambers. The hot water just arrived for my morning wash. And my back is incredibly sore from sitting on that wobbly throne."
Elara and Sienna exchanged a look. They had been working out in the freezing mud since dawn. The promise of a warm room, a hot washcloth, and the Lord's undivided attention was worth more than silver.
Elara's smirk deepened. She rolled her shoulders back, leaning in close enough that I could feel her warm breath against my neck.
"We are very good at following orders, My Lord," Elara whispered, the 'simp-hustler' persona dropping completely, replaced by genuine, heavy tension. "Lead the way."
I tossed my wooden cup to Willem without even looking.
"Court is delayed, Willem," I announced, turning toward the Keep's heavy oak doors with my two S-tier waitresses flanking me. "The Lord is entering a closed-door strategy meeting."