A Necromancer's Guide to Clearing a Game Like Tower

Chapter 268: Chapter 259 — The Voice Beneath the Palace III (Bonus)

What finally moved him was not the power.

It was that he could see tomorrow with complete clarity. He would go up these stairs and sleep for three hours and get up, and there would be dispatches, and he would read them first because he always read them first.

And one day, not soon, perhaps, but one day, there would be another four-page report in that same format, with another unaccounted column, and he would read all of it including the equipment inventory, and then he would go and say everything correctly to his father and be refused.

And he would bow.

Two years of being right had bought him a room full of boxes and the privilege of reading the casualty lists before anybody else did.

”Yes,” Baldwin said.

---

It was not spectacular, and he was grateful for that afterward in a way he never examined.

The red came up out of the seams in the floor and into him slowly, through the soles of his boots and up, and it was not warm. It was pressure, an enormous steady pressure filling him from underneath, as though he were being poured full of something that did not fit.

At one point it hurt badly enough that he had to put his hand flat against the wall and lock his jaw.

He did not make a sound. That mattered to him.

When it finished, he was standing in a dark corridor in his own palace, and he looked exactly the way he had looked coming down.

His breathing was too even. That was the first thing. He had just endured something that should have left him gasping and his chest was rising and falling like a sleeping man’s.

He flexed his hand and the strength in it was wrong — not enormous, not glowing, simply *more*, sitting there quietly, available.

And for about a heartbeat, under the skin of his forearm, something red moved.

Then it was gone, and there was only Baldwin.

The voice did not tell him to kill his father.

It did not tell him anything. It had said what it had to say and it went quiet, and it left him standing in the dark with exactly the problem he had brought down the stairs with him, a kingdom being led toward a catastrophe he could see, a father who would not turn, and a heir’s duty to obey.

Except that now he had something he had not had at the top of the stairs.

He went up.

---

In the morning he ate breakfast with two of his father’s councillors and spoke about the eastern grain contracts, and was pleasant, and nobody looked at him twice.

Then he walked through his own palace and looked at it properly for the first time.

Not at the tapestries. At the machinery.

Where the guard changed, and who chose the rota, and which of those men had been appointed by the king personally and which had simply been there for years. How many soldiers in the capital answered to the household rather than to the city garrison. Which officers had been attached to him as heir, and what they were actually permitted to do, and what they would do if asked.

Who carried orders out of Caerleon, and how long a rider took, and whether the same men always rode the same routes.

Who controlled access to his father, not the ceremonial access, but the real kind, the men who decided which dispatches went up tonight and which went up tomorrow.

How quickly the city learned that the king had given an order, and through what mouths.

Which military units were close enough to the capital that their position would matter in the first two days of anything.

He did not speak to a single one of these people about it. He did not recruit anybody. He did not write anything down.

He simply walked through his home and saw, for the first time, a set of locks and the doors they were fitted to.

And what he understood by the afternoon was that the obvious thing was also the stupid thing. A man who kills a king and then hopes the kingdom accepts him is a man gambling with the only throw he gets.

Baldwin did not need to gamble. He was the lawful heir. The crown was already going to come to him — the question was never *whether*, only *when*, and in what condition the kingdom would be when it did.

Which meant the work was not the killing. The work was everything around it.

If every part of the machinery was already turning in his hands on the day the king died, then the succession would not be a seizure at all. It would be a Tuesday.

---

He made his first move four days later, and it was so small that Alaric approved it in under a minute.

Baldwin came to his father with the northern dispatches, the real ones, the accumulating ones, the same ones he had been laying out for two years — and he did not argue about the eleven positions.

He said that whatever course the Crown chose on the frontier, the capital itself was not currently prepared for an emergency arriving from the north. Muster times were untested. The chain of command between the household troops and the city garrison had not been exercised in eleven years. Nobody had established who had authority to open the armouries at night.

He asked for authority to review and coordinate the capital’s emergency readiness. Nothing more. Reviewing, coordinating, reporting back.

His father looked at him for a moment, and Baldwin held the look easily, because everything he had just said was completely true.

”Granted,” Alaric said. And then, because he was a father before he was anything: ”You have been carrying a great deal of this alone. I am glad to see you take hold of something.”

”Thank you, sire.”

Baldwin bowed, exactly as he had bowed four nights earlier, and it did not cost him anything this time.

---

He worked alone that evening with the door shut and the papers spread across the whole surface of the table.

Muster rolls. The guard rota. The courier schedules. A list of which units lay within two days of the capital and who commanded them. The armoury keys and who held them.

And beneath all of it, at the edge, the northern dispatches, the reports that had brought him down a staircase four nights ago, the ones he had been reading first every morning for two years.

Baldwin looked at those last.

He noticed himself doing it. He sat with his hands flat on the table and understood, quite calmly, that the monsters coming down out of the north had become the second thing on his desk, and that he had not decided to move them there.

Then he pulled the guard rota toward him and began working out how many of these men would need to be his before it would be safe for his father to die.

Not whether. He had stopped asking that somewhere on a staircase and had not noticed the moment it happened.

Only how, and how quickly, and in what order, so that when the crown came to him, Caerleon would survive the day it did.