3. Last Will and Testament #2
“We could buy a house,” Gabriel said. “A real one. Not rented.”
“We could.”
“With a garden. You like gardens.”
“I do like gardens.”
“Number fifty-nine.”
Miles perked up. “We’re almost there.”
Three more numbers. Three more strangers shuffling to the counter to be conducted to the back offices and complete their depressing business with the empire of beige .
“Where would you want to go?” Gabriel asked. “If we bought a house. Briarleigh again? Somewhere new?”
Miles hummed, thoughtful. “Briarleigh has been good to us. Quiet. Safe. Good bread. Wonderful wines.”
“Excellent priorities.”
“I’m a simple man with simple needs.” Miles paused. “Though honestly? I’d be content anywhere, so long as it had a decent library and you in it.”
There it was again. That casual deployment of sincerity that always caught Gabriel off guard, left him exposed and aching in ways he didn’t have words for. Miles said these things like they were obvious facts. The sky was gray. Water was wet. They’d have a home together.
Though if Gabriel was honest, home was not a place. Not for him. He’d lived in a palatial mansion, and it had been a prison. Now he occupied a modest cottage in Briarleigh that felt more like home than anywhere he’d ever laid his head.
Because Miles was there.
Home was wherever Miles was.
So long as that place wasn’t Rookgate Manor.
The clerk called out. “Number sixty-two.”
With a sigh of relief, they rose and went to the counter. The clerk stood and asked, “Lord Goldmar?”
Gabriel’s back teeth ground together. It took a conscious effort to keep the hiss behind his teeth. “Don’t call me—”
But the clerk had already turned, gesturing them toward the hallway. Miles offered Gabriel a hand. Gabriel took it, following the clerk’s retreating back down a corridor lined with identical doors bearing identical brass nameplates too tarnished to read.
The clerk stopped at a nondescript door halfway down. “Lord Goldmar,” he intoned, “you’ll be seen inside.”
“I’m not—” Gabriel bit down on the protest. The clerk had already vanished back toward the lobby like he’d never existed at all, leaving them alone in the dim hallway. “I hate this city.”
“I know.” Miles squeezed his hand once before releasing it, reaching for the door handle.
The office beyond was as depressing as Gabriel had anticipated. More beige. More filing cabinets threatening structural collapse under the weight of their contents. A desk drowning in paperwork faced them, and behind it sat a man so thin he might have been assembled from pipe cleaners and spite.
He stood as they entered. “Lord Goldmar. Thank you for your patience. I am Master Steward Palthor Quillmane. Please, sit.”
Gabriel opened his mouth.
Miles beat him to it. “This is Gabriel.” He emphasized his use of Gabriel’s first name. “I’m Miles Beauchamp, his partner. We appreciate you seeing us.”
Palthor didn’t react to the correction, merely gestured at two chairs. The wood creaked ominously as they sat.
“Now then.” Palthor settled behind his desk, pulling a file toward him. Not just any file. This was a monument to bureaucratic excess, easily three inches thick and bound with red twine to keep the contents from spilling out. “Regarding the matter of the Goldmar estate—”
“Let’s make this quick.” Gabriel leaned forward. “I want to sign whatever documents are necessary to relinquish all claims to the estate, collect whatever gold it’s worth, and never hear the name ‘Goldmar’ again. Where do I sign?”
Palthor blinked once. Twice. Like Gabriel had just announced his intention to sprout wings and fly. “I’m afraid that’s not how the process works.”
“Then explain how it does work, and we’ll adjust accordingly.” Miles kept his voice pleasant, but Gabriel heard the steel underneath. “We’re prepared to be flexible.”
“The matter is somewhat... complex.” Palthor picked open the red twine knot and opened the file, revealing layer upon layer of documents in various states of yellowing. “Your father’s estate—”
“He wasn’t my father.” Gabriel tasted venom on his tongue. “Madaze Goldmar was a sadistic monster who deserved exactly what he got, and referring to that piece of rotting filth as anything remotely paternal is an insult I will not abide.”
Miles didn’t contradict him. Just reached over and rested a hand on Gabriel’s knee.
Palthor’s expression didn’t shift. He might have been carved from the same beige stone as the walls. “The late Lord Madaze Goldmar’s will specifies—”
“The late Lord can rot,” Gabriel said. “Which he’s presumably doing. I want nothing from him except distance.”
“Nevertheless.” Palthor adjusted his spectacles. “The legal designation stands. You are the sole heir to the Goldmar estate, which includes the title, the manor house, various holdings throughout Rookgate, and certain... financial obligations.”
That last bit sounded ominous. Gabriel exchanged a glance with Miles, who had gone very still.
“What kind of financial obligations?” Miles asked.
Palthor shuffled papers, producing a ledger. “The estate underwent a mandatory financial audit during probate. Several discrepancies emerged. Tax liabilities, primarily. Lord Madaze appears to have been rather... creative... in his accounting practices.”
“Of course he was.” Gabriel slumped back. “So, the estate owes the Crown money.”
“Substantial money, yes.”
“How substantial?”
Palthor consulted the ledger. “Approximately forty-seven thousand gold in back taxes and penalties.”
Gabriel heard a faint ringing in his ears as the number settled in his brain, obscene and outrageous.
“That’s...” Miles started.
“Impossible to pay,” Gabriel finished. “Which is irrelevant, because I don’t want the estate anyway. So, the Crown can seize it, sell it, and recoup their losses. Problem solved.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how the process works.”
“You keep saying that.” Gabriel’s hands curled into fists. “Explain to me why not.”
Palthor sighed, a sound like air escaping from ancient bellows. “As the legal heir, you hold the title. The title carries certain obligations. Until those obligations are formally transferred or the title is legally dissolved, you are responsible for those obligations, including the tax debt.”
“Then I’ll dissolve it. Today. Now. Tell me what form to sign.”
“It requires a hearing before the High Court of Averdon.”
Gabriel stared at him. “You’re joking.”
“I assure you, I am not.” Palthor pulled another document from the file.
This one looked especially official, complete with wax seals that had partially melted into the parchment.
“Alternatively, should you object to the name but wish to retain the title, you could petition to have the title name officially changed, which would require visiting the Bureau of Noble Appellations—”
“Another office,” Gabriel said flatly. “Like this one.”
“Oh no, much slower.” Palthor’s fingers found another section of the file. “Additionally, any holdings you wish to reject must be individually assessed and certified via notarized affidavit. The manor itself, as the official seat of the Lordship, cannot be sold. It must accompany the title.”
Miles had gone quiet. Gabriel recognized that silence. It was the one that preceded either brilliant tactical planning or spectacular violence.
“Let me understand this correctly,” Miles said, each word measured. “Gabriel can’t simply walk away from the estate.”
“Correct.”
“He can’t sell the property piecemeal.”
“Not without proper certification of the assets first.”
“And if he does nothing—if he ignores the whole situation—what happens?”
Palthor produced yet another document. Gabriel was starting to suspect the file was infinite, a cursed artifact that generated paperwork spontaneously.
“I refer you to On the Limitations and Procedures of Heir Denial as Pertaining to The Succession of Notable Estates, Volume III: Revisions Following the Lord Lannath Versus Treasury of Averdon Ruling . Page forty-seven, section twelve. A lord who fails to fulfill the obligations of his inheritance—for example, by allowing a house seat to become derelict—is in violation of Averdon Municipal Code and subject to arrest and prosecution.”
The office was airless, the clerk’s words turning the walls into the sides of a box.
“Arrest,” Gabriel repeated.
“And prosecution, yes. And that’s setting aside the matter of the taxes.”
Gabriel looked at Miles. Miles looked back at him, brown eyes wide.
“So,” Gabriel said slowly, “I can’t renounce the title without a court hearing.
Which doesn’t matter much, because the estate owes the Crown a tax debt that needs to be paid before the hearing will let me dissolve the title.
I can’t possibly pay the debt if I emptied my pockets and sold everything I own.
I can’t sell any Rookgate property to pay the debt without some presumably labyrinthine certification process.
Rookgate Manor cannot be sold at all. And I can’t simply abandon it without risking imprisonment. ”
“That is an accurate summary, yes. ”
“This is insane.”
“This is Averdon,” Palthor said, with the first hint of something approaching human emotion Gabriel had heard from him. It might have been humor. Or indigestion. Hard to tell.
Gabriel’s mind spun through possibilities, each more desperate than the last. Break into the file room. Burn the documents. Seduce the clerk. No, too thin, probably wouldn’t fall for it anyway. Run? But Miles had been right; that only delayed the inevitable.
He’d spent his entire life in a prison of sorts because of Madaze. Years of compulsion and cruelty, trapped behind gilded bars serving up depravity to the great and good of Averdon while Madaze pulled the strings.
Gabriel would be damned if he ended up in another cell because of him.
His mouth opened, though what was going to come out, he couldn’t say. Something cutting, probably. Maybe an offer to demonstrate exactly where Palthor could file his forms in triplicate.