Chapter 2 #2
"All of you," I announce, at command volume, "will report to First Mate Evans for reassignment within the hour.
Those who demonstrate competence and loyalty will be retained with improved compensation.
Those who do not will be liquidated." I pause, then add, because Cypress is making a face that suggests I have said something concerning, "From the payroll.
I am fully aware that human corporate law frowns upon physical dismemberment in the workplace.
I merely appreciate the tactical impact of the dual meaning. "
"Right," Cypress says, and there is definitely amusement in her now, though she is attempting to hide it behind a professional expression. "It is a highly effective financial term. Though maybe we can workshop your delivery a little bit before the all-hands meeting."
"Noted." I gesture toward the door, or rather, toward the doorframe where the door used to be before I introduced it to my boot. "Show me to the accounting records. I wish to assess the full scope of what I have conquered."
What I have conquered, as it turns out, is a disaster of such magnificent proportions that I am momentarily rendered speechless.
We stand in what Cypress identifies as the "financial records room," though "room" seems a generous term for what is essentially a converted supply closet stuffed with filing cabinets that appear to have been organized by a blindfolded badger with a grudge against alphabetical order.
Papers spill from every surface, sticky notes in various stages of decay plaster the walls like the remnants of a siege, and there is a smell in the air that suggests something has died and been left to decompose beneath one of the many, many stacks of unsorted documentation.
"It's not usually this bad," Cypress says, though her tone suggests she is lying for the sake of morale. "Gerald was supposed to digitize everything last quarter, but he got distracted by some kind of farming simulation game and..." She trails off, gesturing helplessly at the chaos surrounding us.
I extract a folder that is labeled, inexplicably, "MISC 2019-2023 (MAYBE).
" Inside, I find expense reports mixed with tax documents mixed with what appears to be someone's personal medical records mixed with a takeout menu from a restaurant that, based on the faded quality of the paper, has been out of business for at least five years.
"This is an insult."
Cypress winces. "Yeah, it's pretty bad."
"Pretty bad." I turn to face her fully, and I can feel my tusks aching with the effort of not grinding them together in fury.
"First Mate Evans, I have seen battlefield medic tents with better organizational systems than this.
I have seen orc encampments after three days of victory celebrations that were more orderly than this.
I have seen..." I pause, searching for an adequate comparison.
"I have seen the aftermath of a troll negotiation that was more comprehensible than whatever filing methodology has been applied to these records. "
"In their defense," Cypress says, though she does not sound particularly defensive, "the previous management didn't really prioritize administrative infrastructure.
They were more focused on... well, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure what they were focused on.
Looking busy during board meetings, mostly. "
I pull open another drawer, then another, each one revealing new depths of bureaucratic chaos.
Ledgers with entries that have been crossed out and rewritten so many times they are essentially illegible.
Spreadsheets printed on paper and then annotated by hand with corrections that contradict each other from page to page.
A folder labeled "IMPORTANT - DO NOT LOSE" that contains nothing but a single dried-out pen and a receipt for office supplies from 2017.
"The tax documentation," I growl, flipping through a stack of papers that appears to be quarterly reports from three different years shuffled together with no apparent logic. "Where is the tax documentation?"
Cypress moves to a cabinet in the corner and pulls out a box that has been sealed with approximately seventeen layers of packing tape.
"This is everything from the last audit," she says, setting it on the one clear surface in the room, which happens to be the top of another filing cabinet.
"I've been trying to get Gerald to sort through it for the past eight months, but. .."
"The mobile games," I finish grimly.
"The mobile games," she confirms.
I begin cutting through the tape with one claw, slicing through the layers of adhesive with the same precision I would apply to filleting an enemy's defenses.
Inside, the documentation is, if anything, worse than what I have already seen.
Tax forms are incomplete. Deduction records are missing entirely.
There are calculations in the margins that appear to have been done by someone with only a passing familiarity with basic arithmetic, and several entries list expenses that I am fairly certain are not legitimate business costs under any interpretation of the regulatory code.
"This figure here," I say, pointing to a number that has been circled several times in red ink. "This is the total claimed for the infrastructure depreciation exemption, yes?"
Cypress leans in to look, and I am momentarily distracted by the proximity, by the smell of her hair which is something floral beneath the general staleness of the records room, by the way her shoulder brushes against my arm as she peers at the document.
"That's what it looks like," she says, frowning.
"But that can't be right. That exemption caps out at fifteen percent of qualified assets, and based on the asset documentation I've seen, this number is way too high. "
"Agreed." I pull out my phone and begin running calculations, muttering the figures under my breath as I work through the arithmetic.
"If the total qualified assets are approximately four point seven million, and the exemption rate is fifteen percent, then the maximum allowable deduction would be.
.." I pause, double-checking my mental math.
"Approximately seven hundred and five thousand.
This claim is for one point two million, which would require qualified assets of eight million, which based on the depreciation schedules I have reviewed is not possible unless they have been significantly underreporting in previous years. "
Cypress is quiet for a moment."That's... not quite right. The exemption rate is fifteen percent, yes, but it's fifteen percent of the depreciated value, not the original asset value. You have to calculate the accumulated depreciation first and then apply the percentage to the remaining book value."
I blink, processing this correction. She is right.
Of course she is right. The depreciation adjustment is a basic element of the calculation, and I had overlooked it in my eagerness to identify the discrepancy.
It is a minor error, the kind of mistake that happens when one is processing new information too quickly, but it is still an error, and I am not accustomed to having my calculations corrected.
"Show me," I say, handing her my phone.
Cypress takes it without hesitation, her fingers moving across the screen with practiced efficiency.
"So if we start with the original asset value of four point seven million," she says, pulling up the calculator function, "and apply an average depreciation rate of twenty percent per year over the relevant period, which looks like about four years based on these records, we get a remaining book value of approximately two point three million.
" She taps in the numbers as she speaks, her movements quick and confident.
"Fifteen percent of that is three hundred forty-five thousand.
Which means the claimed deduction of one point two million is overstated by approximately eight hundred fifty-five thousand dollars. "
She hands the phone back to me, and I gaze at the calculation on the screen, at the clear and correct arithmetic that my First Mate has just performed in her head with apparent ease.
She is not looking at me with smugness or superiority, merely with the patient expectation of someone who has delivered information and is waiting to see what will be done with it.
"You corrected me," I say slowly.
Cypress's expression flickers with something that might be concern. "Was I not supposed to? Because if this is going to be a 'the Warchief is always right even when he's wrong' kind of situation, I should probably know that upfront so I can adjust my expectations accordingly."
"No." The word comes out more forcefully than I intend, and I see her flinch slightly before catching herself.
I moderate my tone, though the effort required is significant because I am feeling something that I think might be delight and I am not entirely sure how to express that in a way that will not be misinterpreted.
"No, First Mate Evans. You were absolutely supposed to correct me.
A leader who cannot accept correction from their advisors is a leader who will eventually lead their forces off a cliff.
" I pause, considering. "Sometimes literally, in the case of the Mountainhold Campaign of '89, which is a story for another time. "
The concern in Cypress's expression is slowly being replaced by something else, something cautious and curious and oddly warm. "So you're not going to fire me for pointing out that your math was wrong?"
"Fire you?" I am genuinely baffled by the suggestion.
"Why would I fire the one person in this entire building who has demonstrated the intelligence and the courage to correct an error?
I did not acquire this company to surround myself with sycophants who would let me walk into regulatory audits with incorrect calculations.
I acquired this company to build something, and building requires honest assessment of both strengths and weaknesses. "
Cypress is quiet for a long moment, her eyes searching my face in that assessing way that I am beginning to recognize as her default mode of processing new information. "That's... not how my last boss operated," she says finally.
"Your last boss is unconscious on the conference room floor because he was too foolish to see the value standing directly in front of him," I reply. "I do not intend to make the same mistake."
Before she can respond to this, a sound reaches my ears from the direction of the main office floor.
Footsteps. Multiple sets, moving with the kind of purposeful cadence that suggests intent rather than casual passage.
I hold up one hand for silence, and Cypress goes still immediately, her eyes widening slightly as she registers my shift in posture from commanding to alert.
The footsteps stop just outside the records room door, and then someone speaks, smooth and polished and dripping with the kind of oily confidence that I have learned to associate with the worst kind of corporate adversary.
"Knox Bloodaxe. I heard rumors that you were making moves in this sector, but I have to admit, I didn't expect you to be slumming it quite this dramatically.
A third-tier regional firm? Really? I thought the Bloodaxe Clan had higher standards. "
I turn slowly, positioning myself between Cypress and the doorway, and I feel my lips pull back from my tusks in what is not a smile.
Standing in the entrance to the records room is a figure I recognize from intelligence briefings and unflattering photographs, a human male with silver hair swept back from a forehead that has clearly benefited from expensive cosmetic intervention, wearing a suit that probably cost more than this company's entire quarterly coffee budget.
Victor Ashworth. CEO of Ashworth Financial Solutions. My primary competitor in the regional market expansion and, according to my grandmother, "a snake in human clothing who would sell his own mother for a favorable quarterly report."
"Ashworth," I growl, and I am pleased to note that the name comes out sounding appropriately threatening.
"In the flesh." Victor steps into the room, his polished shoes somehow avoiding the scattered papers and debris that litter the floor, his smile wide and white and utterly devoid of warmth.
Behind him, I can see two more figures, lawyers based on their matching briefcases and expressions of studied boredom.
"I have to say, Knox, your timing could not have been more perfect.
You've saved me the trouble of dealing with the previous management myself. "
He reaches into his jacket and produces a folder, extending it toward me with a flourish that suggests he has practiced this particular gesture in front of a mirror.
"Consider this a welcome gift. A notice of immediate foreclosure on all physical assets of this company, effective forty-eight hours from receipt.
It seems the previous leadership was not particularly diligent about their loan payments, and Ashworth Financial Solutions happens to hold the majority of their outstanding debt. "
I do not take the folder. I glance at Victor Ashworth, at his perfect hair and his perfect suit and his perfect smile that does not reach his cold, calculating eyes, and I feel something dark and hot unfurling in me.
Behind me, Cypress makes a small sound that might be dismay or might be the beginning of a very creative profanity.
Victor's smile widens. "Welcome to the neighborhood, Warchief."