The courtyard was larger than Beorn had expected from the gate. The main building rose on three sides, and the wings extending from it ran back farther than he could see from where he stood, their far ends vanishing into the early evening shadow.
The garden in the near corner was neat, recently cut, its smell faint in the cooling air. Everything else in the courtyard was still.
Still no guards. No movement anywhere.
"Why then," Beorn said, "at the gate."
Aestrith walked beside him toward the entrance. "I'd been watching you."
"For two days."
"Two days was enough." Her voice stayed flat. "I know what I'm doing."
"I don't doubt it."
She glanced at him. That was not the answer she had expected.
"I decided it was acceptable," she said, giving the word extra weight.
"Good to know."
Beorn pushed the entrance door open and held it for her.
Inside, the corridor smelled different. Stone and old air, with the faint trace of a place that had spent more time closed than open.
An attendant looked up from a small table near the entrance. Young. Unhurried. He took them in, then lowered his eyes back to his work.
"What were you planning," Beorn asked as they walked, "if not the hire."
The corridor stretched long in both directions, wall sconces lining it, half of them dark. The center of the floor had been worn smooth by years of use.
Closer to the walls, grit lay untouched. Dust gathered along the edges beneath closed doors.
Aestrith stayed quiet for a stride. Then another.
"A hostage situation."
Beorn looked at her.
"You'd be worth something to the steward. I'd demand a sum for your safe return, then leave before they tracked me."
He passed a door. The handle had darkened from disuse.
Then he laughed. Brief, but real.
Aestrith glanced at him. Something crossed her face and vanished just as quickly. She looked ahead again.
"The attendant's sending someone."
A woman appeared from a side passage farther down the corridor. Middle-aged and unhurried, she confirmed who they were looking for, then led them without hesitation into another section of the building.
The floor beneath Beorn's boots changed immediately. More traffic. More wear. Everything behind them faded back into dust and neglect.
This part was still alive.
The steward's office stood at the end of the corridor. The woman knocked, exchanged a few quiet words through the door, then held it open for them.
Inside smelled of candle wax and old paper. A room used through winter and never quite rid of it.
The steward rose from behind his desk before they had fully entered.
Lean. Somewhere in middle age. Clothes pressed. Hair combed flat.
Nothing about him looked accidental.
His shoulders loosened slightly when he saw Beorn. The relief was immediate and genuine.
"My lord." He came around the desk. "I'm very glad you've safely arrived. Very glad indeed."
He meant it.
Then his gaze shifted to Aestrith.
She was studying the room. Walls. Window. Shelves behind the desk. Her expression gave him nothing.
The steward's warmth held, but his attention returned to Beorn one beat too quickly.
"Please, sit." He gestured toward the chair across from the desk and returned to his own side. "There's much to discuss when you're ready, my lord."
Beorn sat.
Aestrith moved to the window and remained standing there. The steward noticed and chose not to comment.
"What is your name?"
"Eadric, my lord."
"Start with what my title means out here. Practically."
Eadric settled into his chair and folded his hands atop the desk.
"The protectorate seat carries the crown's administrative authority over the territory and its settlements. Revenue collection, dispute adjudication, military command of the garrison, and responsibility for maintaining Dunvarre's territorial claim against competing interests."
He paused.
"On paper, it is a substantial position."
"And in practice?"
A faint breath passed through his nose.
"In practice, my lord, the Badlands complicate each of those functions considerably."
"How considerably."
"The revenue base has contracted over the past several years. The mines nearest the city have encountered difficulties. The garrison operates below intended strength. Supply lines from the capital are irregular."
His tone remained even. Practiced.
"The territory continues to function, my lord. It simply requires a great deal of management to keep it functioning."
"And the previous three representatives." Beorn leaned back slightly. "How did they handle the gap between paper and reality?"
A half beat passed before Eadric answered. Both of them heard it.
"Each had their own methods. Conditions here require adaptation. Some representatives found the situation suited their strengths. Others found it less so."
"I see."
"The crown's formal requirements for this seat remain ongoing," Eadric continued. "Quarterly reports to the capital's administrative office. Revenue figures, garrison strength, incidents of note within the territory. I've maintained these throughout the years, my lord."
He adjusted his hands slightly.
"What the crown ultimately requires from the man holding this seat is accountability. Proof that the protectorate is governed, that the territory remains held, and that the expense of holding it is justified."
A shorter pause followed.
"The difference between what the records show and what the territory actually produces has required careful management. I won't pretend otherwise."
Then he brought up the escort.
He introduced it himself a few minutes into the discussion. It had been sitting in the room with them from the start.
"Before we proceed to current matters, my lord, I must again express the profound grief of everyone in this administration for what occurred."
His voice took on the proper shape for it.
"The loss of the escort party was a genuine tragedy. Those men served with dedication."
"I'm surprised you already know about it," Beorn said. "Terrible thing."
"It's the nature of the Badlands, my lord. Even experienced parties encounter situations that cannot be fully anticipated. The terrain. Monster activity near the wilderness. Some realities cannot be entirely mitigated by preparation, however thorough."
He paused again.
"The escort assigned to your party was among the most experienced available for that route. Their loss is deeply felt."
"The route they took. Was that standard?"
"The eastern route, yes. Standard for the season. Standard for a party of that composition."
"Who would've known it in advance.?
"The escort senior, certainly. The staff responsible for arranging the journey. The departure steward's office." Eadric's hands shifted again, only slightly. "It was not restricted information, my lord. A number of people would've known in the ordinary course of preparation."
"Of course."
Beorn picked up a ledger and quill from the desk and wrote something in the margin.
Eadric's eyes flicked toward it, then away.
"As for immediate next steps," Eadric said, settling back into his chair, "a formal dispatch to Dunvarre announcing your assumption of the seat should be sent before week's end. The capital expects notification within a reasonable period following arrival."
He touched the desk lightly with his fingertips.
"There is also the ceremony of assumption, conducted before the city's administrative council. A formality required by the records, and not one that should be delayed. I can arrange it at your convenience."
Another pause.
"And the stewardship accounts are current and available for your review whenever you wish, my lord. I would recommend beginning there. They'll provide the clearest picture of present conditions."
Beorn listened while looking at what he had written in the margin.
The exile was a death sentence.
The language around it had called it punishment, but he knew what it truly was without needing to test it. The queen's court had sent him here because the Badlands killed people, and nobody asked questions about the dead.
He was alive. That was the only condition that mattered.
And so he was here. In this chair. In this room. In this city.
The body's memories gave him the outline of the title and its obligations. The claims of the capital. The claims of Ashmark itself. He could follow both threads.
The other life gave him the weight beneath them. What governance looked like when it functioned. What it created when it failed. What a population that had stopped expecting anything from its rulers looked like from the street.
He had walked those streets that afternoon.
He already knew.
The two currents pressed against each other in his mind without joining. They would not join tonight.
He would work with both.
Eadric was still talking.
Beorn kept writing.