3. Last Will and Testament #4
“I’m saying there are people who would overlook almost anything for the privilege of being called ‘Lord.’” Palthor picked up his pen again.
“The specific... activities... of the previous title-holder, while… distasteful, would likely be viewed as a problem already solved by his timely death. The new Lord would be purchasing an opportunity to rebrand, as it were.”
“Rebrand,” Gabriel repeated. The word tasted foul.
Palthor returned to his list. “Once you have a willing heir identified, the retirement process itself is relatively straightforward. More paperwork, naturally. A formal ceremony before witnesses. And then you’re free of it. ”
“Free of it,” Miles echoed. “Except for the part where we’ve handed a noble title to someone whose primary qualification is having enough money and insufficient moral standards.”
Palthor’s pen paused. “I don’t make the system, Master Beauchamp. I merely manage it on behalf of the Crown.”
“We’ll need access to the complete records of the estate’s holdings,” Miles said. “Property deeds, investment portfolios, inventory lists, everything necessary to begin the certification process.”
“That will require authorization forms. Multiple signatures.” Palthor was already reaching for a drawer. “And a formal request filed with—”
“We’ll sign whatever you need,” Miles said.
Forms materialized like conjuring tricks, each requiring Gabriel’s signature here, Miles’s witness mark there, and initials along the margins.
Gabriel stared at the pen in his hand. If he didn’t sign, maybe none of this would be real. Maybe Madaze wouldn’t be his father? Was signing endorsing it, making it real?
But that wasn’t how it worked, was it? Signing was the only path to making it un real. To severing the connection. Right?
His vision grayed at the edges, thoughts fragmenting like light through dirty glass. Nothing made sense. The words on the forms blurred together.
He signed anyway. What choice did he have?
Gabriel’s hand cramped. The ink-stained blotter on Palthor’s desk accumulated a fresh archipelago of smudges, a map of his tremors. His thoughts stuttered in stops and starts as his hand moved, and more papers appeared as others were taken away.
“And here,” Palthor said, sliding yet another document across the desk. “This acknowledges receipt of estate materials and absolves the Crown Offices of responsibility for any discrepancies in the records.” Palthor pointed to three spots for initials.
“Of course it does,” Gabriel muttered, scrawling his name without reading anything, trusting Miles to stay his hand if necessary.
Finally— finally —Palthor stood and disappeared into the forest of filing cabinets. He returned bearing a leather satchel that looked like it had been to the war and back again, bulging with files and ledgers. A ring of keys clattered on top .
“The manor keys,” Palthor said. “Along with what records we have. I must warn you. Lord Goldmar’s bookkeeping was somewhat... idiosyncratic.”
Gabriel hefted the satchel. It weighed almost as much as his contempt for this entire situation. “Wonderful.”
Gabriel was already turning toward the door, satchel clutched against his chest like a shield, when Miles’s voice stopped him.
“One moment.” Miles hadn’t moved from his chair. “Master Quillmane, how were these materials acquired?”
Gabriel suppressed a groan. Of course Miles couldn’t let it go. Of course he had to understand things.
Palthor’s expression flickered, the first crack in his bureaucratic mask.
Something that might have been exhaustion, or perhaps a desperate wish for them to simply leave .
Gabriel found himself in complete sympathy.
He wanted to leave too. Wanted to be anywhere but this beige purgatory discussing the logistics of his inheritance from a monster who may or may not have been his father.
“The ledgers,” Miles pressed. “The keys. Rookgate Manor has been unoccupied for six months. Someone must have entered the property to retrieve them.”
Palthor sighed—a sound like parchment settling—and reached for yet another file. Gabriel watched him rifle through it with a mixture of impatience and morbid curiosity.
“The Office attempted to conduct a standard inventory,” Palthor said, scanning whatever document he’d found. “As is procedure for any estate entering probate. Our agent visited the manor...” He squinted at the page.
“And?”
“The front door would not open.”
Miles leaned forward. “Locked?”
“Obviously, but that is not normally a problem.” Palthor’s mouth pressed thin. “Our agent employed a standard government unlocking charm. The door remained... uncooperative.”
Uncooperative. Gabriel’s grip tightened on the satchel.
“A second visit was arranged,” Palthor continued. “A Guild mage accompanied our agent. Level three caster, I believe. The charm he employed should have been sufficient to open any mundane lock in Averdon.”
“Should have been,” Miles said .
“The door remained closed.”
Gabriel wasn’t surprised, exactly. This was more like a confirmation of a suspicion he hadn’t wanted to examine too closely.
“There was discussion of forcing entry,” Palthor said, and here his voice took on a distinctly uncomfortable quality. “However, as temporary stewards of the estate, the Office was reluctant to damage property that would ultimately belong to the heir. Liability concerns. Paperwork.”
“Naturally,” Gabriel muttered.
Palthor’s eyes dropped to his desk. “While our agents were... discussing the matter... the materials appeared.”
Silence.
“Appeared,” Miles said flatly.
“At their feet.” Palthor gestured at the satchel Gabriel held. “The ledgers. The keys. Simply... there. Where they had not been a moment before.”
Gabriel stared at the leather bag in his arms. At the ring of keys that had clattered so innocuously atop the pile of documents. Keys that had, apparently, materialized from thin air while Crown agents argued on the doorstep of a house that refused to let them in.
A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest, high and sharp and slightly unhinged. He tried to swallow it, but it escaped anyway, a hiccup of hysteria that echoed off the beige walls.
Everyone stared at him.
“Sorry,” Gabriel managed, pressing a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, it’s just—” Another laugh, threatening to become something else entirely. “Of course. Of course, it would—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t know how.
Miles rose, smooth and controlled. “Thank you for your time, Master Quillmane. We’ll be in touch regarding the certification process.”
“The Office is open from the eighth bell to the fourth. Appointments are recommended.”
Miles’s hand found the small of Gabriel’s back, guiding him toward the door. Gabriel let himself be steered, clutching the satchel and its impossible contents, the half-swallowed laugh still rattling in his throat.
The corridor swallowed them. The door clicked shut behind them.
The Crown Offices released them back into Averdon’s perpetual gloom. Gabriel sucked in a breath of damp air that tasted of wood smoke from thousands upon thousands of hearths and the river’s brackish tang. Still an improvement over the suffocating beige.
Around them, the offices stretched in neat, oppressive rows.
Stone buildings hunched against each other like conspirators, their windows glowing with the warm light of magical lamps that did nothing to dispel the chill.
Clerks in dark coats scurried between offices, clutching portfolios and looking universally miserable.
A pneumatic tube rattled overhead, crossing the street on an elaborate brass framework.
“Taxes,” Gabriel announced to the street at large, his voice climbing. “The bastard knew who I was and left me taxes—”
Miles’s hand found his elbow, gently steering him left. “Keep walking.”
“—which is exactly what he would have wanted, the sadistic piece of rotting—”
“Gabriel.”
“—filth who probably planned this, probably knew he’d die and thought ‘how can I make my previously unacknowledged son’s life miserable from beyond the grave?’ and decided tax evasion was the—”
Miles pulled him into an alley between two administrative buildings. The narrow space smelled of moss and old stone, blessedly empty of witnesses.
Before Gabriel could continue his tirade, Miles leaned down, cupped his face, and kissed him.
It was brief but thorough, the kind of kiss that demanded attention. It pulled Gabriel out of his spiral and drew him firmly into the present. Miles’s mouth was warm, his hands steady on Gabriel’s jaw. When he pulled back, Gabriel blinked at him.
“What was that for?”
“Two reasons.” Miles’s thumb stroked Gabriel’s cheekbone. “First, you were announcing our entire situation to anyone within earshot, which seemed unwise.”
“And second?”
“Second—” Miles’s expression shifted, something thoughtful crossing his face. “Madaze ran a criminal enterprise for years. A very profitable criminal enterprise, if even half of what we know is accurate.”
Gabriel frowned. “So?”
“So where’s the money, Gabriel?” Miles kept his voice low. “The official records may show debts and obligations. But we both know he was accumulating wealth through deeply illegal means. Wealth he couldn’t deposit in a bank or report to tax authorities.”
The pieces aligned like the final tumbler of a lock under his pick. “Off-the-books assets.”
“Hidden somewhere. Possibly in the manor itself. Which has not been searched.” Miles’s hands dropped to Gabriel’s shoulders. “If we can find it—whatever cache he kept—we might be able to settle the tax debt immediately. Simplify this entire nightmare considerably.”
For the first time since Palthor had begun speaking, a path forward—narrow and treacherous—appeared through the gloom. “We’d still need to find an heir.”
“One problem at a time.” Miles smiled. “But a solvent estate is infinitely more appealing than one drowning in debt. Makes the whole proposition much easier to sell and gives us more flexibility about whom to choose. And removes the chance that the Crown will throw you in prison for the tax debt while we work through the rest.”
Gabriel looked at him, really looked. At the determination in those brown eyes, the set of his jaw that said he’d already decided they were doing this together, no negotiation required. Miles had followed him into hell once before. Apparently, he was willing to do it again.
Miles hesitated, his gaze heavy with unasked questions. “Gabriel, about the registry filing...”
“Don’t.” Gabriel cut the words dead. He couldn’t look at the implication—that the monster who broke him shared his blood—without shattering. It changed nothing. It changed everything . “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead. I want to keep him that way.”
Miles studied him, reading the jagged edge in his voice, then nodded once, letting the subject die. “Alright.” He adjusted his collar, shifting back to practicalities. “We should head to the manor. Best to see what we’re dealing with while we still have light.”
“We’re really doing this,” Gabriel said. “Going back there.”
“ We’re doing this,” Miles confirmed. “Together. We inventory the holdings, find whatever Madaze hid, and get you free of this. Then we go home.”
Home. Briarleigh. Sun-drenched vineyards and quiet mornings and a life that belonged to them.
Gabriel kissed him again, quick and fierce. “Together.”
“Together,” Miles agreed.