13. Settling Debts #5
“Fairfield,” Gabriel corrected, striding forward. He placed the Treasury receipt directly atop whatever form Palthor had been reviewing. “Pending, I know. But let’s practice.”
The clerk sputtered. Palthor’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath papery skin.
“As you can see,” Gabriel continued, tapping the document, “the Rookgate estate’s tax liability has been settled in full. I believe this changes our administrative situation rather significantly.”
Palthor’s gaze dropped to the receipt. His eyes moved across the official seal, the Treasury’s stamp, the precise figures. The pen in his hand trembled—just slightly, but Gabriel caught it.
“This... appears to be in order,” Palthor admitted, each word extracted like a tooth.
“Wonderful.” Gabriel claimed the chair beside the bewildered clerk without invitation. “Then let’s discuss what this means for my holdings. I believe, with the debt cleared, I’m now entitled to full access to the estate’s liquid assets? The accounts that were frozen during probate?”
“There are forms—”
“I’m certain there are. Why don’t you fetch them while I wait?”
The silence stretched. Palthor’s pen made a small creaking sound under the pressure of his grip.
“Perhaps,” the clerk ventured, half-rising, “I should return at a more convenient—”
“Excellent idea,” Gabriel said brightly. “Master Quillmane and I have extensive paperwork to review.”
The clerk fled. Gabriel settled more comfortably into his stolen seat.
What followed was one hour of the most satisfying bureaucratic combat Gabriel had ever waged. Every form Palthor produced, Gabriel completed with exacting precision—but slowly, savoring each signature while Miles asked pointed questions about procedural requirements.
Palthor’s expression had progressed from irritation through disbelief to something approaching grudging respect. His pen continued its steady work, stamping and signing, though Gabriel noticed the pressure behind each strike had increased considerably .
By the end of the hour, they’d cleared the frozen accounts, filed the tax settlement, registered the debt clearance with three separate departments, and obtained official confirmation that Lord Gabriel Goldmar—pending Fairfield—possessed full legal authority over the Rookgate estate’s remaining assets.
“I believe,” Palthor said at last, pushing the final document across his desk, “that concludes our business for today.”
“For today,” Gabriel agreed, tucking the papers into his coat alongside the Treasury receipt. “Though I suspect we’ll see each other again soon. The name change hearing is in two weeks, after all.”
Something flickered in Palthor’s eyes. Not quite fear, but certainly wariness.
“I look forward to it,” the Master Steward said, in a tone suggesting he looked forward to it about as much as a root canal.
Gabriel rose, straightening his cuffs. “A pleasure as always, Master Quillmane.”
He swept out of the office with Miles at his heels, leaving Palthor surrounded by the wreckage.
Gabriel practically pranced circles around Miles on their way back to the Mourning Lark. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this satisfied about handling bureaucracy.
“The look on Palthor’s face!” Gabriel laughed as they climbed the stairs of the Mourning Lark to their—now repaired—room and set the chest of gold on the desk with a thunk. Gabriel tucked the paperwork in the chest as well. “I thought his pen was going to snap in half.”
“You did rather enjoy making him squirm,” Miles said.
“Of course I did. The man’s been a minor torment since we arrived.” Gabriel shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. “Besides, I followed all his precious procedures. I simply did it at my own pace.”
“Skipping the queue and placing the receipt on his desk while he was meeting with someone else hardly counts as following procedure.”
“Details, darling.” Gabriel waved dismissively. “The important thing is that we’ve dealt with the tax issue. A major obstacle, removed.”
He stretched languidly, feeling almost buoyant. The certificate of good standing Palthor had begrudgingly issued would open many doors .
Gabriel flopped backward onto the bed, arms spread wide. “We’re making real progress. The taxes are paid. The house mystery has been solved. Lord Paray Vellast of Halebourne will soon be dead.”
“What a remarkable change from yesterday,” Miles said, sitting beside him. “You seem almost cheerful about the whole affair now, impending killing notwithstanding.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Gabriel said, though he couldn’t help smiling. “But I’ll admit, there’s a certain satisfaction in dismantling problems one by one.”
His smile faltered as the inevitable question surfaced in his mind: what exactly was he going to do with Rookgate Manor and all its complications? The sapient house itself, the title, and all his other lordly responsibilities...all of it still awaited a permanent solution.
Gabriel sighed, the momentary weight of it dimming his good mood. “I suppose I’ll still need to figure out what to do with all of it. Find an heir or a steward or something.”
“We have time,” Miles placed a reassuring hand on his knee. “We’ve made remarkable progress in a matter of days. And we should focus on preparing for tonight.”
“You’re right.” Gabriel shook his head, refusing to let the lingering problem spoil his current triumph. “That’s a concern for another night. Tonight is for putting the fear of me into Lord Vellast.”
Gabriel studied Miles’s dear face more closely, looking for the fellow-feeling of joy and anticipation.
The smile was there, warm and familiar, but something else lurked beneath it.
A shadow at the corners of his eyes, a hollowness to the expression.
Weariness. Strain. The kind that came from being dragged through someone else’s hurricane and trying to keep your footing.
Gabriel sat up, the buoyancy of the day’s victories draining away. He’d been so caught up in the momentum of it all—the theft, the taxes, the planning with Viz—that he hadn’t stopped to consider what he’d been asking of Miles.
No, it wasn’t that he hadn’t thought to ask. He deliberately hadn’t. He’d steamrolled through every decision with meaningful glances and assumed concurrence, only bothering to check in after the fact.
“Miles. Are you... actually alright with tonight?” He glanced sidewise at Miles.
Miles’s brow furrowed. “Of course. We’ve discussed—”
“No, we haven’t. Not really.” Gabriel pulled his legs up, sitting cross-legged to face his partner properly. “I’ve been making decisions and then looking at you until you nod. That’s not the same thing.”
A pause stretched between them. Miles’s hand found Gabriel’s knee again.
“I hadn’t realized you’d noticed,” Miles admitted.
“I’m observant when I’m not being a complete disaster.” Gabriel reached out, threading his fingers through Miles’s. “Tell me. Honestly.”
Miles exhaled, some of the careful composure slipping. “Rolling with chaos isn’t my strength. I prefer plans with contingencies, backup strategies, time to analyze variables.” He managed a weak laugh. “You know. You’ve seen my lists.”
“I have. They’re adorable.”
“They’re organized.” But the correction lacked heat.
Miles looked down at their joined hands.
“I won’t pretend I’m looking forward to tonight the way you are.
The uncertainty of it. The violence.” He swallowed.
“But this is your vengeance, Gabriel. I know I pushed, hard, in the beginning of all of this, to do things my way, and my plans haven’t exactly worked out as I promised.
I have reservations about what I am going to optimistically refer to as your plans, but this is your call.
I should have been more collaborative from the start.
I will always have your back when push comes to shove. ”
“Even when push involves breaking into a lord’s manor and killing him?”
“I’m a vigilante myself, love. I was before we met.
This isn’t the first time I’ve taken it upon myself to enact justice for the Order.
Not even the first time on your behalf.” Miles’s thumb traced circles on Gabriel’s palm.
“Though I’ll admit, there’s something different about it—Madaze, and now Vellast. Having a personal stake rather than abstract rightness.
It should feel easier—more justified. Instead, it feels.
..” He trailed off, searching for the word.
“Muddier,” Gabriel said.
“Yes. I can’t make myself quite look forward to it, no matter how much I want the man dead.”
Gabriel let that settle. He thought about what he actually wanted. Not just the fantasy of Vellast’s blood on his blade, but what mattered. What was essential.
Must he be the one to wield the knife? Even at the cost of Miles’s peace?
He wanted it. Gods, he wanted it. The satisfaction of ending the man who’d bought his body, who’d helped keep him caged. But wanting something and needing it were different beasts .
“We could change the plan,” Gabriel said. “Take a support role. Help with the arrests at the satellite locations instead. Let someone else handle Halebourne Hall.”
Miles looked up sharply. “You’d do that?”
“For you? Yes.”
Something shifted in Miles’s expression—gratitude, maybe, or surprise. But then his jaw set, not with bravado, but with a heavy, resigned sort of duty.
“No.” Miles shook his head. “If we do that... then we’re no better than him, are we? Vellast sits in his tower and sends knives in the dark. He treats death like a transaction.”
Miles tightened his grip on Gabriel’s hand.
“We sentenced him, Gabriel. I don’t get to ask someone else to carry the weight of the execution just so I can sleep better.
That isn’t justice. That’s just... moral laundering.
” He met Gabriel’s eyes, the strain still there, but bolstered by a hard, bright clarity.
“If I am willing to have him dead, I must be willing to do the deed. I will find my nerve. We do this together.”
Gabriel searched his face for doubt, for reluctant sacrifice. He found neither.
“Together,” he agreed.