Yale sat back, sipping his breakfast tea as Gwenivar put jam on her slice of bread. “The Western Barracks completely failed inspection. I got one of my people in to look around.”

"How bad was it?" Gwenivar asked.

He sipped his tea again, “The roof collapsed in the first and second dorm rooms. There’s no way to fix it. The beams are rotted out, and slamming a door could cause the rest of the building to fall. That it’s still standing at all is because it’s been taken care of by Sir Owen’s men. Sir Salvage submitted an honest report for once, though he added a note that Owen should be charged with assault for pulling him out of harm’s way.” Yale smirked and looked down at his cup briefly. “I had my people steal Sir Owen’s accounting books and the remaining years of rejected requests, as well as the accepted ones from the archive library. Just in time, apparently. The financial clerks broke into Owen's office just after my people finished tossing everything out the window and hid. Financier Albany and his clerks promptly locked their office and left town last night."

“Are the knights getting paid?” Gwenivar asked.

“Barely. They’re given seventy-six hundred."

"A week?" Gwenivar lowered her bread, having been about to take a bite

"A month," Yale confirmed.

Gwenivar looked up at the sky in disgust. A Barracks Captain should have gotten six hundred a month. The other knights should have gotten five. That pay should also have covered servants to take care of laundry, cleaning, cooking, and other chores. But with just seventy-six hundred...

"According to Owen's books, the financial office isn't ever on time with it. He scrapes the money together from some unknown source whenever that happens and pays himself back with what the financial office gives them. Anything left over gets handed out mid-winter and written down as ‘bonus,’” Yale added. "That's a little shady on his part, but he's very straightforward with it in his notes, so it isn't like he's hiding what he's done."

"It will still get him in trouble." Breakfast was starting to sit poorly in her stomach. "What about servants?"

"They have one cook."

She made herself eat since she hated wasting food. "Anything else?"

"He has very eclectic taste in novels.”

Gwenivar lifted a brow.

“They found Duchess Delectable stored next to The Last Swordmaster.”

She snorted. “Just because he has them doesn’t mean he read them.”

Yale shrugged. “Maybe strike up a conversation about it? In other news, Kelvin has people out searching for anyone who might have known the actor who is currently playing Solace. We might have a day or two to work.”

“Yale, please be frank with me. Sir Owen is rumored to be a lazy drunkard, but I’ve heard that his men will defend him to their last breath. Why?”

The chubby lord glanced aside, brows knit. “You know, I never thought to ask that.”

“Clearly, he does something for them. I feel like he is worth keeping, worth having indebted to me. Do you have any idea of their duty roster for today? I want to know who is available to speak to. Who is likely to speak to me.”

Yale snorted. “I can get a copy of it, certainly. They have it posted in the barracks foyer. As for who would speak with you, I would say Sir Davis. I overheard him telling the other knights that you’d taken an interest in the situation and to cooperate with you.”

Lavender opened the door to the balcony after a soft tap. “Lady Gwenivar, there’s a Hannish woman outside begging to see you. She’s in tears, and I can barely understand what she’s saying.”

Frowning slightly, Gwenivar followed her gut and said, “Let her in, give her something to drink, and help her calm down. I’ll see her in a moment.”

Lavender nodded and left.

Yale smiled at his tea. “Ever so soft-hearted,” he said fondly. “I wonder what has her so distraught.” He leaned forward with a playful grin. “I bet it’s about Sir Owen.”

“You’re basing it off her being Hannish. That’s hardly fair. It could be something else entirely.”

“But you’re not taking the bet,” Yale pointed out with his pinky as he gestured with his teacup. “So you think it’s about Sir Owen, too.”

“Only one way to find out.” Gwenivar finished her bread in two more bites and washed it down with her tea.

Yale hurried to gulp his tea and followed her into the sitting room from her balcony. The Hannish woman was tiny. Her dark hair was pulled into a twist braid and fell over her shoulder as she sniffled into the teacup Lavender had provided.

The Hannish woman hastily set the cup down. “Thank you,” she said, bowing even as she stood. "Thank you for seeing me.” To Gwenivar's surprise, the woman's accent was nothing like Sir Owen’s, consisting of forward-pressed vowels and rolled Rs. Sir Owen had been the first Hannish she'd ever spoken to face-to-face, so she couldn't help but notice the difference immediately. She knew only two other things about them as a people; they called their royalty Amro, and they were generally loud in everything they did.

Gwenivar went to the couch opposite. “Please, sit, miss. I’d like to hear what has caused you so much grief.”

Lips trembling, she sank back down onto the couch. “It is Sir Owen. They are speaking of killing him. They beat him often, and I do not understand why he allows this, but they cannot kill him! They cannot be allowed. It would be bitter disaster!”

“We’re aware of his current situation,” Gwenivar said. “Can you tell me how you heard of this, though?”

“Sir Davis told Fatima yesterday. This morning, I hear Kelvin speak to Archduke Harthford. They do not like him because they think he is arrogant.” She shook her head. “I am servant of Archduke Harthford. He says much in front of me. Thinks I do not speak Durrish.” She gripped her hands together, fretting with her fingers before she reached into her bodice to pull out a packet of papers. “I will tell you everything I hear, but please, save Sir Owen. He is shameless, but he is ours.”

Yale moved to sit on the couch beside Gwenivar, “What is your name?”

“Aafiya,” she said. She pushed the papers across the coffee table to them. Yale took them and started looking through the sheaves. He went quiet.

“We already planned on saving him, but your information could make that much easier. Do you know why they hate Sir Owen so much?” Gwenivar asked.

“He annoys them on purpose,” Aafiya said. “He is very good at annoying them. He does it so they do not hit the other knights.” She frowned deeply. “He is also good at his job. They do not like that he knows what he is doing. They stole his money books. They know he took papers.”

“Papers?” Gwenivar asked.

“Yes. They prove he did not steal. He took them, but they don’t know how. They are mad. That is why they want to kill him. Before they are discovered.” Aafiya trembled. “Bitter disaster. They cannot be allowed to do this.” She was steadily wilting over her knees in despair.

Gwenivar covered her mouth to keep from telling the woman that all the papers were accounted for. “Did they say when they would harm Sir Owen?”

“This week,” the woman said, shaking her head. “Chancellor Floritan said he likes Sir Owen where he is and doesn’t want him killed. He said it was easy money. But Sir Kelvin said the matter has already come to light, and someone must die.”

“Yale. If you could give His Majesty that indexed packet, that should halt Kelvin’s plans for a short time.”

Yale lowered the papers he held and looked at Gwenivar. He struggled not to grin as he handed the papers over. “I’ll get right on that. But once we save him, we need to use him well. Because this will make it very obvious we’re taking a more direct approach.”

Gwenivar turned a smile on him as she took the papers. “Making use of him is my task. You focus on yours. Now, off with you.”

Yale stood, giving her a bow. “As you wish!”

Now, Gwenivar looked down at the papers she held, feeling her heart skip a beat as she recognized Harthford’s handwriting. Some of the papers were blackened on the edges as if they’d been in a fire. Others were crumbled. Some were on less expensive paper than Harthford would ever be caught using, but it was still recognizably his handwriting, along with the handwriting of two other people. Her eyes flicked across the text frantically to absorb what she’d been given. “Miss Aafiya… Where did you get this?”

“Harthford is careless with his writing. I cannot read, but I know an important thing when I see it. I can copy.”

Covering her mouth to hide her wild grin, Gwenivar struggled to control her face. “This… Please bring us more things like this.”

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