Hentai King System

Rigel did not ask Mesterica if she was sure.

The empty post was in her face, and the letters in her fist were still folded, still his wording, and still useless.

”The clerk,” he said.

”Alive when I left him, smiling, he asked the kneeling question as if it were weather, I put him on the floor and he thanked me for the courtesy of not cutting his tongue, which is when I stopped treating him as a clerk.”

Erna eyed the papers like they might grow veins.

”So we rode a quarry for a wagon full of nothing and your warning never left the first yard, that is a full day’s joke.”

”It is a route,” Mesterica said, and fell in beside them toward the lamps, ”they do not need the ink if they can stand in the place a rider would stop and wear the stop itself.”

The bound woman in the wagon thumped once, gagged, and the complainers looked anywhere else.

Cynthia met them at the gate with Blade behind her, on his feet, which was either courage or a lining that had learned posture.

Cynthia took in the wagon, the quarry dust, Mesterica’s empty-handed return, and did not waste the moment on an I told you so.

”Father has been saying no for an hour in sentences I would not repeat in a temple, Calden finished the yesterday passes, three of them have extra lines about latches and sleeping rooms, and Pell has gone quiet in a way I like less than the tapping.”

Rigel swung down and spoke in one run for the yard, not the wall.

”The first post is compromised, no more letters on that road, no clerk from outside this gate takes a bag, the woman in the wagon goes in a cell with no servant passage, Erna boards whatever she has not already boarded, and if anyone asks about Gousel kneeling they lose the rest of the sentence before they find the end of it.”

Blade’s mouth tightened.

The iron was his.

The tiredness was his.

The question under it tried to stand up and he crushed it by talking longer than the lining liked.

”I will not ask after your house, I will ask after my road, how many posts between here and the next garrison still answer in their own names, because if the first one is a smile then the map I have been using to feed this city is a piece of furniture.”

Mesterica answered him, not Rigel.

”I only saw the one, the horse had not been ridden hard, the bags were opened carefully, whoever read them wanted us to see that they had been read and left, that is not hunger, that is a lesson.”

Erna spat dust.

”I am taking the wagon to the old ice rooms, no panels, no pretty brick, stone on all six sides, if she talks through rock I am going home to patch ovens for people who pay in coin and not in prophecy.”

Rigel let her have the wagon.

He took the letters back from Mesterica, tore them across the birdless fronts, and fed the pieces to a gate lamp until even the honest lines were ash.

Cynthia watched the paper go.

”You just burned the only clean warning your father was going to get.”

”A clean warning that already got read is a script, Dolly does not need my handwriting arriving late with flour on the back, she needs the house shut and any voice like mine treated as a thief, that order is already late and sending it again on the same road is how they teach the next clerk my cadence.”

They put the quarry woman in the ice room.

The door was ugly.

The hinges complained.

Erna looked happier than she had in the annex.

Inside, after the gag came off for water, the woman did not ask for a priest.

She asked, pleasantly, whether Mesterica had enjoyed turning around, and whether the holy knight’s father still thought no was a wall.

Cynthia shut that down by putting the gag back herself.

Rigel stood in the corridor with Mesterica and did not bother lowering his voice for the stone.

”You stay off the post road, you stay in sight, they wanted you chasing a bag and me chasing a cart and Cynthia holding a chair, we do not give them that split again tonight.”

Mesterica’s reply came long and sharp.

”Then say what we do give them, because boarding panels is housework, and that thing in the ice is a leftover, and your packet is cold, and cold has been the sign that the work already happened somewhere you cannot put a hammer.”

Calden arrived at a walk that was trying not to be a run, ink on both hands, a ledger hugged to his chest like it might try to write without him.

”Lord Rigel, Lady Mesterica, the west gate just took in a man who says he is from Gousel, not the courier we already have, a new one, older, he has the Marquis’s proper tax seal this time, he asked to speak only to the young master, and he will not let the bag leave his neck, he also said, before anyone prompted him, that the house is awake, the maid has a knife, and no one there will open a door for a merchant again.”

Rigel did not move at once.

”Does he smell like flour.”

Calden hesitated, which was an answer, then made it into words.

”No, he smells like horse and ink, he is angry, he called the first rider a hole in a uniform, and he asked me not to hit him unless he starts quoting rooms he has never stood in, which I thought was a promising way to introduce himself.”

From the ice room came a muffled sound that might have been a laugh.

Rigel looked at Mesterica, then at Cynthia’s distant back by her father’s chair, then toward the west gate.

”Bring him to the yard, not a chamber, if the seal is real we use him, if he knows the inside of my father’s study he goes next to the other courier, and if he says the word kneel I will assume the road taught him too.”