The room was black, candles throwing shadows and their shadows upon stone walls as Aric read the report in his hand. The parchment concealed Montclair's transgression—a sin so bad that it could kill the duke with one stroke.
"Plundering war funds." Aric breathed, his hand fisting around the paper's margins.
Punishable by death if the king chose to label it treason.
His mouth twisted up in a wolfish grin.
"It's time to tighten the noose."
Aric had discovered years earlier that a man's downfall never began with a single blow. It started with rumor.
The nobles subsisted on rumor, paranoia, and fear. And Montclair had plenty of them.
That was the key.
"Cedric," Aric called, his voice smooth.
The man stepped forward immediately. "Yes, my lord?"
Aric leaned forward. "I want rumors sown. Cautiously, initially. A raised eyebrow here, a question there. Let people wonder. where precisely Montclair's funds come from."
Cedric bowed. "Done."
Strathmore, across the table, sneered. "And when they begin to question him?"
Aric's grin turned evil. "Then we provide them with the proof."
By the third day, the rumors had already started.
At a grand party, Baroness Lysara bent closer to Lord Ferris, gloved hand against her lips.
"Did you hear?" she whispered, just loud enough for others to catch. "Montclair's been transferring gold to private coffers."
Ferris scowled. "Impossible. He's too prudent."
Lysara nodded her head. "Then where has his new capital come from? And why have the kingdom's books… disappeared?"
Ferris went pale. The first fissure had appeared.
It was now Montclair's turn to be in the hot seat.
Aric wrote a letter—one intended to disturb the duke.
Duke Montclair,
There are eyes on you. Questions being asked. The wrong people are starting to wonder where your wealth is coming from.
Maybe it is time to establish your stance. before someone else does.
—A Friend.
By the next night, Montclair was furious.
His spies had brought him the rumor. His friends had started to wonder at his wealth. And now—a letter from some unknown hand?
The Duke threw a goblet against the wall, wine spilling like blood on stone.
"Who dares defy me?" he bellowed.
His counselor, a gray-haired man, spoke hesitantly.
"The nobles are in an uproar, my lord. If the king hears of this—"
"Then he'll call for an audit," snarled Montclair. "And we can't let that happen."
He clenched his fists.
Somebody was working him.
Somebody was orchestrating this conspiracy against him.
And he was going to know who.