I blink.
The candelabra are faintly sparkling with good-luck gold. Fortune’s in a mood again. But why—
Then I get it.
There may be a better use of the margrave’s signet ring than dropping it in a privy. I will get away with thisexactly once, but it will be worth it if it lifts the curse.
Besides, Adalbrecht said he doesn’t care where the old décor goes.
I plaster the biggest, most empty-headed smile over my face and whirl to face the two soldiers assigned to keep an eye on me. I even snap my hips just right so my skirt and cloak flare in an explosion of petticoats, and clap like a delighted toddler. “Oh, mymarkgrafis the wisest of all men, isn’t he!Deeds, not coin. Of course. Will you assist me?”
They do. They’re not paid enough to say no.
When the coach leaves for town, it’s with four tapestries, six bronze statuettes, two fine lace curtains, three porcelain urns, five marble busts (not including the elder von Reigenbachs, who aren’t exactly travel-sized), and all seven silver candelabra bundled in the thick, soft imported Bourgienne carpet and stuffed inside. There’s just enough room for me to wedge myself into a corner while Ragne clambers over it all as a squirrel.
Essentially, I took almost everything in the entrance hall that wasn’t nailed down. Adalbrecht has no reason to return there for a while, so by the time he hears about it, the goods will already be scattered across Minkja. And if he’s angry—no, not if—whenhe’s angry, I will flutter Gisele’s long lashes, cry prettily, and say I just thought this was what he meant bygood deeds.
We head for the Salzplatt, where the city hall, courthouse, and other municipal buildings wreathe a wide brick plaza. A great bronze statue of Kunigunde von Reigenbach, the firstmarkgräfinof Bóern, towers atop a marble column in the middle of the square, closely watching the weighing of salt and stamping of crates.
A few hundred years ago, Kunigunde herself had the idea to ban the sale of any salt in Bóern unless it bore the seal of Minkja, forcing every salt merchant to pass through Bóern’s capital city or take a costly detour around the entire march. That brilliantly brutal bit of maneuvering made Bóern the most powerful territory in the south, and kept Kunigunde’s memory alive . . . in more ways than one.
No one’s quite sure if her statue is haunted, or if a Low God has simply taken up residence there, but periodically the statue brings her spear down on the marble with acrack. Then she points it at whoever is trying to cheat the salt clerks at the moment. Right now she stands motionless under the flat gray sky, but I doubt anything in the plaza escapes her notice.
And we certainly don’t escape the notice of the rest of the Salzplatt, rolling up in the ludicrously lavish Reigenbach coach. We come to a halt by the city hall, a great limestone building that bristles with spires and gargoyles (though the gargoyles are mostly napping). A line of shabby, pinched people wraps around the entrance, waiting to plead for forbearance from the Debtor’s Magistrate.
Adalbrecht’s warmongering makes him popular with the gentry of the empire, but he’s squeezing most of Bóern to keep his battalions fed, clothed, and well armed. Resentment wars with curiosity in many of the faces that turn toward the coach.
“Wait here,” I order Ragne again, then throw the door open and watch the pearls around my neck melt that resentment away. Flickers of gold tumble over their heads, seen only by me: Their luck is about to drastically change.
“You,” I say, reaching for a hollow-eyed woman with the hunched shoulders and impeccably mended clothes of a seamstress. “My dear woman. Who do you owe?”
She drops into a curtsy, head bowed. “My apologies, mistress, I’m—I’m late on my taxes, it’s fifteen white pennies, but I can’t—”
“Lovely. Come with me.” I turn to the rest of the line. “In fact, if you’re late on your taxes or otherwise owe money to the margrave, please step aside and wait a moment. Everyone else . . .” I pull a candelabra out of the coach as people break away from the line, then toss it to one of the debtors still queuing. From the look on his face, it’s worth at least a season’s income. “Happy Winterfast. Next?”
The guards trade uneasy looks. “Princess Gisele,” one starts, “the margrave—”
“Yes, just as Adalbrecht said,” I say merrily, passing a priceless urn to a wide-eyed farmer. “Deeds, not money. This is all very practical. Who wants a tapestry?”
Once the carriage has been emptied, I lead the rest of the debtors into the city hall, straight up to the bewildered clerk’s window. “Hello,” I say brightly. “I am Gisele-Berthilde Ludwila von Falbirg, betrothed to Margrave Adalbrecht von Reigenbach, and I need you to draw up some papers for me.”
“O-of course,” the clerk stammers, scrambling for a clean parchment. “What does m’lady require?”
“I think you’ll need a few pages.” I gesture to the small crowd of people behind me, then hold up Adalbrecht’s signet ring. “In the margrave’s name, I am forgiving the entirety of the taxes, fees, and any other civic debts owed by these people here.”
There are gasps and cheers, and an outburst of general chaos as debtors cluster at the window, desperate to make sure their names are on the list. Even the magistrate leaves his chambers to survey the commotion.
I only stay long enough to dictate the order and press Adalbrecht’s ring into the wax. Then I start extracting myself from the throng, smiling graciously and clasping hands and retreating to the door. The mood is a distinct kind of joy, the static crackle of a miraculous reprieve, and I see tears in a few eyes.
I trynotto see them, fussing with my cloak’s ribbon ties. Barely over a year ago, that would have been me, weeping for so trivial a windfall.
Just then, a familiar heap of sad black wool stumbles into my path.
I stop short. “Junior Prefect. Whatever are you doing here?”
Emeric Conrad opens his mouth, closes it, then remembers to bow and immediately drops a charcoal stick as he does so. “L-Lady—er—Prinzessin. Hello. I was just speaking with the administrator of the city watch. That is, about thePfennigeist, of course.”
“Were they helpful?” I ask. They absolutely were not, of that I amquiteconfident. The only people who want to bury word of my robberies more than the victims are the Wolfhünden. Wouldn’t want any other thieves getting ideas about evading their protection fees.
