Granero's fingers trembled only once—so slightly that no one in the room could have noticed—and then steadied. He unrolled the next scroll and let his eyes run across the cramped script, the neat columns of names and sums that men had thought safe in ink and wax. He had been searching for hours, tracing signatures, comparing seals, stitching together a picture from fragments. What he found now was a pattern so bold it might have passed for arrogance.
Beneath the heading—Scholarship Disbursements: Orphan Relief & Education Fund—were entries that did not belong. Names of nobles, carved in flowing script, received allocations "for the merit of wards" when no wards existed. Ten stood out like rooks on a chessboard, carved into the same hand. Granero's jaw tightened as he read the names: notaries, house seals, marginal notes—each one a quiet lie. Among them, emblazoned with a crest he had seen in battle, was the name of Ziloman.
Albert Ziloman's father.
For a heartbeat Granero let his imagination fill the gap—gold diverted to secret coffers, children left without the roofs they were promised. He had wanted proof before he sounded any alarms; proof he now had, folded and stamped and impossible to dismiss.
He rolled the scroll closed and rose. "This will be presented to his Majesty," he told the aide beside him, voice low and final.
Before they could move, a voice as oily as old wine cut across the hall. "Stop there, or you will lose your head."
It came from the shadowed cluster of nobles gathered near the eastern archway—led by Withlo Ziloman, plump and flushed, his jeweled fingers drumming against the pommel of a dagger hidden within his cloak. The other nine stepped forward like wolves scenting blood, their smiles too wide, their eyes too narrow.
Granero did not flinch. He allowed a slow, amused smile to curl at the corner of his mouth—a smile that did not reach his eyes. "You mistake me for a man who bargains with thieves," he said. "I have faced the scorpion empire armies and blood-mad warlords. A handful of hired swords will not unman me."
Withlo chuckled, loud and forced. "My friend," he said, smoothing his doublet, "let us be reasonable. Fifty-six million was meant to feed mouths and build roofs. A trifle, no? Overlook this and take your cut. I'll treat you right—five million gold coins from my personal purse. Think of your family. Think of your comforts. Walk away from the ledger. Forget what you saw."
He spread his hands as if the bribe were a benediction.
A ripple of reaction washed the hall—gasps, the scrape of a chair leg, the soft intake of breath from clerks who had come to the inspection expecting order, not theatre. One of Withlo's men shifted his weight, fingers already finding the hilt of his blade.
Granero let the moment stretch. He could feel the blood in his temples, the old fight-thrum that had accompanied him through sieges and interrogations. Memories flickered—dusty battlements, a moonless night when he had bled for a cause he barely understood then. He thought of the orphans, of the small faces on the ledger who would not be fed if the gold never reached them.
"Five million?" Granero repeated softly, as though tasting the number. "Is that your idea of justice? To drown duty in coin?"
Withlo's grin hardened. "Justice is a luxury, Inspector. Money fixes things. Money buys silence."
Granero inclined his head and, in one smooth motion, unfastened the scroll case at his belt. He did not draw a blade; instead he let the freshly unrolled parchment fall between them for everyone to see. The names were exposed—columns of ink that accused more thoroughly than any sword.
"Do you see?" he said, voice low enough that only those nearest could hear. "You took money meant for children. You wrote their names into ledgers without children to fill them. You called your guilt 'charity' and expected that to cleanse your hands."
A murmur rose. Withlo's cheeks tensed, the jeweled fingers clenching as if to squeeze the words from his mouth.
"You think the emperor is blind," Granero continued, gaze fixed on Withlo, "or that his patience is endless. You misjudge him—and you misjudge the price of a ledger when it betrays you."
With that, he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod toward the archway. It was a signal his men understood without sound. From niches and practice rooms, from behind stacks of parchment and under the eaves of the gallery, a dozen figures stepped forward—Inspector Granero's unit—coats dark as river mud, hands at their belts, faces set like flint. They moved with a quiet precision that made the nobles' bravado wobble.
Their hired hands couldn't make a move and even turned and fled when the word 'Emperor' was mentioned.
Withlo's mouth twitched. The confident laughter died in his throat as Granero's men drew closer. There was no clatter, no drumbeat of soldiers—just the slow, inexorable closing of a trap.
"You had your chance," Granero said, voice calm and cold. He turned slightly so that the scroll's ink glinted in the torchlight. "I will not bargain for a bribe. I will lay this at the emperor's feet, and let him do what he must. If by some accident you think you can deny this, there are witnesses—scribes, ledgers, seals. Paper does not forget, and it cannot be bought."
Withlo swallowed. The jewels at his throat clinked softly. "You—" he began, voice hoarse. "You—have no proof these are my—"
Granero smiled then, a blade of amusement. "Ah, but I have signatures, and I have witnesses who will swear to dates and transfers. I have a contractor's mark that matches the one on your private invoices. I have a merchant's seal that appears in shipments to your manor. And I have your name signed here—Ziloman—beneath the stipend for an orphan who does not exist."
The room tightened around him. The governor, who had watched with a forced serenity, could no longer hide the tremor of unease in his fingers. Some courtiers shifted away; others stared like men at a noose, bargaining silently with fate.
Withlo's bravado was gone. He looked older than his years, as if the ledger's truth had taken a bit of his skin. "Inspector—" he started, then stopped. He spat the final offer like sour wine. "You'll regret—"
Granero's voice dropped to the same whisper. "No, Withlo. You will regret thinking you could turn a child's bread into a bauble for your palm. Regret is small. Shame is worse."
One of Withlo's companions made a sudden move—too quick, too clumsy—and for a second it seemed the night might erupt. But Granero's men were faster; a hand grabbed the wrist, iron cuffs clicked, and the would-be attacker went down, eyes wide with the betrayal of someone who had only ever bought loyalty, never earned it.
Granero towered above them all, not with triumph but with a tiredness that was almost sorrow. He did not enjoy the ruin of men, but he had chosen a life that demanded such decisions.
"Bind them," he ordered quietly, and the command was obeyed. Hands were seized, doublets were ripped open for seals to be confiscated, and the room filled with the staccato noise of men brought low.
As Withlo was led away, he turned his face toward Granero, hatred and fear warring in his expression. "You will answer for this," he spat. "You will not be the one to tell the emperor."
Granero watched him go, the torchlight painting Withlo's face in bruised gold. "I will tell the emperor everything," he said. "And then we will see who answers."
When the last cuff clicked into place and the nobles' retainers were routed into a corner, Granero gathered the scrolls and sealed them anew. He did not gloat. He only looked at the governor—a look that asked a question without words: Will you stand with law, or with those who would bleed the people dry?
The governor's jaw worked. He swallowed. The choice he made would echo through the region. Granero had set the trap; now it was time to present the catch.