A Necromancer's Guide to Clearing a Game Like Tower

Chapter 267: Chapter 258 — The Voice Beneath the Palace II

It said that he had been right about the position.

Baldwin stopped walking and put his back to the wall and levelled the sword at a corridor with nothing in it.

The voice went on, unbothered.

It said that he had put that position on a list a year and a half ago. That he had argued for its garrison to be withdrawn in autumn and had been refused. That he had argued again in spring and had been refused. That he had read the report this morning twice, all the way through the equipment inventory, which nobody reads.

That he had then gone to his father and said everything correctly, and had lost, and had bowed.

”Who is speaking,” Baldwin said.

It did not answer that.

It asked him instead whether he had counted the unaccounted column.

He had. Four hundred and six.

The voice said that he had known that number before he walked into his father’s rooms, and had chosen not to say it aloud, because saying it aloud would have been using the dead to win an argument, and Baldwin did not do that.

Then it asked him what he thought that restraint had bought.

Baldwin’s grip on the sword changed. Being read that accurately was not frightening; it was infuriating, which was worse, because he could feel the anger being lifted out of him and turned over and examined and handed back to him warmer than it had gone in.

”Whatever you are,” he said, ”you are very well informed and I am not interested.”

”You are extremely interested,” the voice said. ”You have not moved.”

---

He should have gone back up the stairs. He knew it at the time. He said as much, years later, to nobody.

What kept him there was that the thing beneath his palace would not do him the courtesy of being simple.

It did not tell him his father was weak. Baldwin would have turned round at that, because it was not true and because he would have recognised the shape of a lie.

Instead it kept coming back to one thing, patiently, from different sides.

He blamed Alaric for the decision. Very well. Alaric had made the decision, and Alaric was king, and Baldwin had no authority to overrule him.

But Baldwin had not been ignorant. Baldwin had known — for eighteen months, in writing, in a room down the corridor — what he believed was coming and what he believed had to be done about it.

And every time he had been refused, he had complied.

”That is what obedience is,” Baldwin said.

The voice agreed with him. That was exactly what obedience was.

Then it asked how many more reports he intended to read.

”That is not my—”

Not his decision. It knew. He had said so twice already.

So it asked the question a different way, and this was the one that stayed with him.

If Baldwin genuinely believed — not suspected, not feared, but *believed*, with a room full of evidence — that thousands of his own people would die because the king would not make a decision, then at what point did continuing to obey stop being duty and start being a choice Baldwin himself was making?

Baldwin did not answer.

He stood in a corridor under his own house with a drawn sword and could not find the flaw in it, and he had built his entire life on being able to find the flaw in things.

”I do not want my father dead,” he said, and heard how quickly he had said it.

The voice did not argue.

It asked him what he would do if the kingdom were already his.

---

He answered. That was the moment, though he did not know it then. Not the acceptance later — this.

He talked for a long time.

He would end the pretence of a defended frontier and build a real one. He would pull the eleven positions and consolidate the men behind the three walls that could actually stop an army. He would build a central reserve at Caerleon strong enough to relieve any major position inside eight days, and he would keep it there, and he would not spend it in pieces.

He would take the supply corridors under Crown control instead of leaving them to whoever happened to hold the road, because an army that cannot be fed does not defend anything.

He would put the frontier commands into one structure with one voice, rather than four regional commanders and a prince all making local decisions that were individually reasonable and collectively incoherent.

And he would begin all of it now, this year, while there was still a choice about where to spend, rather than in eighteen months when the choice would be made for them by something coming through a wall.

He heard himself finish, in a dark corridor, out of breath.

He had never said the whole of it out loud before. There had never been anybody to say it to who could do anything with it.

”You already know what kind of king this country needs,” the voice said.

Baldwin said nothing.

”You have known for almost two years. You have it in order, in a room, in boxes.” A pause that was not quite a pause. ”The only difficulty is that Caerleon already has a king.”

---

He left.

That is worth recording, because he did — he turned around and went eleven or twelve paces back up the corridor toward the stair, sword still in his hand, and he did not stop because the voice commanded him to.

He stopped because it said, mildly, that he had not asked what it could offer, and that he ought to know what he was refusing.

And then something touched him.

It was not possession, and it was not a vision, and there was no light. Something came into his arms and his back and his legs, and it lasted perhaps four seconds.

Baldwin moved his sword.

It was a movement he had made ten thousand times — a plain descending cut, the first thing anyone learns, the thing he had done every morning since he was seven years old and could do in his sleep and did.

The blade went through the air with a sound he had never heard it make, and the tip came down and struck the stone floor, and a piece of the flagstone the size of a fist came out of it.

He stopped himself.

That was the part he thought about afterwards, more than the stone. He had not been swept away. He had not lost control. He had felt the strength arrive and had felt exactly how easy it would be to keep going, and he had *chosen* to stop, and stopping had been the only difficult thing about it.

Then it went away.

Baldwin stood in the corridor with his own arms back, and they felt like an old man’s.

Nothing had been taken from him. He was exactly as strong as he had been an hour ago, which had been strong enough to command respect in any yard in the capital, and it now felt like being wrapped in wet cloth.

He looked at his own hand for some time.

Somewhere in there, without any words, he understood a simple thing: that certain problems he had spent two years describing as *impossible* were only impossible for a man with the hands he currently had.

”What do you want,” he said.

---

The terms were not complicated, which was the most alarming thing about them.

It could not act above. It was beneath the palace and it was staying beneath the palace, and it could reach up through the stone as far as a voice and as far as this, and no further.

What it could do was put a fragment of itself inside a person who accepted it willingly. Not taken. Not tricked. Accepted, knowingly, by someone who understood the terms.

That person would carry its power, and that person would be its connection to everything above.

Baldwin asked his questions, and he asked good ones, because he was not a fool and had never been one.

Why him. Because his anger had been the only opening in the palace wide enough to reach through, and it had been widening for eighteen months.

What if he refused. Then he would walk up the stairs and it would still be here, and it would wait, because it had waited for considerably longer than his family had existed.

Could it take control of him. No. And it was very precise about this. It could not make him lift a hand. It could not put a thought in him that was not already there. It could not make him do anything.

What would the fragment change. It would make him more of what he already was. Stronger, faster, harder to stop. It would not give him a new mind or new desires. It would not tell him what to do with any of it.

”The decisions remain yours,” it said. ”All of them. I will not take that from you, and I would not want it.”

And Baldwin, who was tired, and correct, and had bowed six hours earlier. heard that as a reassurance.

He thought: *it cannot make me do anything.*

He thought: *then it is a weapon, and a weapon does not decide how it is used.*

He was an intelligent man building a good argument, and the argument had exactly one flaw in it, which was that a weapon in the hands of a man who has already decided what needs doing is not a neutral object at all.

He did not see the flaw.

He was staring at his hand.