Chapter 211: The Price of a Piano

Arik entered the waiting room with the piano, Mezos and Rex following behind him.

The room had been sealed so heavily that even the air felt restricted.

A translucent security field shimmered over the doorway after they crossed it, locking into place with a low ether hum. The wall panels dimmed, the surveillance wards shifted from passive to active recording, and the room’s old climate system restarted with a faint pulse of blue light along the ceiling. George’s taste lingered everywhere despite all the modern systems trying to make the room livable. Too much gold. Too much polished dark wood. Too many paintings selected by a man who thought inheritance and ownership were the same thing.

Rex stopped just inside the threshold and looked around with open disgust.

"I grew up near this man," he said. "How did I not notice how awful his furniture was?"

"You were distracted by survival," Mezos said.

"Valid."

The piano stood near the far wall.

Clean, old lines untouched by George’s vulgar room and the quiet ether glow beneath the floor. A modern diagnostic scanner hovered beside it, projecting a pale outline over the instrument without touching it. Rex’s people had been smart enough not to let the device get closer than the outer wardline.

For one moment, Arik stopped.

Mezos noticed immediately. Rex noticed half a second later and, for once, did not ruin the silence with panic.

Arik waited for the pull.

For recognition, but nothing happened.

There was old ether in the instrument, faint and careful, preserved in the wood like perfume trapped in clothing even after washing. But it did not answer him the way the portrait had. It did not drag memory out of him. It did not open anything in his chest.

It was only a piano.

Behind his ribs, Goliath remained quiet, save for a cold, distant displeasure.

Arik exhaled. "That is why Felix let George keep it."

Rex’s gaze moved from the piano to him. "Because it is not dangerous?"

"Because it was not useful."

Mezos approached the instrument, stopping far enough away to avoid touching the wardline. "No response?"

"Not from me."

"From him?"

"Offended silence."

Rex looked around the room again. "Honestly, same. George put it beside a painting of himself hunting."

Mezos glanced at the painting.

A pause.

"The horse looks smarter than him."

"The horse probably was smarter than him," Rex said.

Arik moved closer to the piano. The old lacquer reflected his face in a broken line of light: gold eyes, controlled expression, a man carrying a dead emperor’s shadow while standing in a room powered by modern ether panels and royal surveillance software.

He lifted one hand, then stopped before touching the lid.

No.

Not yet.

"It comes to my diplomatic palace," he said. "Until we return to Agaron. Then it goes with us."

Rex made a sound.

Arik turned slowly toward him.

Mezos, with the instinct of a man who sensed stupidity approaching at speed, closed his eyes.

"Before you start threatening me," Rex said, lifting both hands, "I am not refusing."

"Good. I am tired."

"I am saying Wrohan can transfer it." Rex gave him a thin, exhausted smile. "For a price."

The room went very still.

Mezos opened one eye. "Rex."

"What?"

"That was brave."

"That was stupid," Arik said, crossing his arms with a disappointed look.

"It can be both."

Arik stared at him.

Then said, very calmly, "Fuck off."

Rex pointed at him. "See, this is why I started with ’before you threaten me.’ "

"Felix stole relics from Nuria. George displayed one like a decoration. I am not paying Wrohan for stolen property because your dead father had the taste and morals of a grave robber."

"Dead unworthy father," Rex corrected automatically. "But not the point. Wrohan’s economy is in the gutters, Arik. And you have more personal wealth than half of my supporters. Don’t be stingy."

Mezos turned his head very slowly toward Rex.

It was the expression of a man watching someone step into a live ether line while insisting the glow was decorative.

Arik stared at Rex.

Rex stared back, exhausted, pale, and entirely too committed to the terrible argument he had chosen.

"You are asking me," Arik said, "to personally buy stolen Nurian property from Wrohan because George was useless with money."

"Yes."

"No."

"Counteroffer: yes, but with dignity."

"No."

"Without dignity?"

"Still no."

Rex clicked his tongue. "You are very difficult when emotionally invested in furniture."

"It is not furniture."

"It is a piano. A very pretty, potentially haunted, politically inconvenient piano, but still a piano."

Arik’s eyes narrowed.

Rex lifted one hand. "I am being practical."

"You are being cheap with stolen objects."

"I am being poor with stolen objects. There is a difference."

Mezos sighed. "There is, unfortunately."

Arik looked between them. "Do not encourage him."

"I am not encouraging him. I am acknowledging economic desperation."

"Thank you," Rex said.

"That was not support."

"I will take what I can get."

Arik’s expression cooled again. "No money for the piano."

Rex leaned one shoulder against the wall, looking toward the silent instrument. The room’s ether-lit diagnostic grid reflected faintly across his face, cutting him into pale gold and shadow.

For a moment, the humor faded.

"I was not joking about the gutters," he said.

"I know."

"No, I mean it is worse than what I told you before." Rex dragged one hand through his hair. "Wrohan does not simply owe money. Wrohan owes money to itself, through every predator George allowed close enough to the treasury. Noble lending pools. Private banks. Ether-grid investors. Agricultural blocs. Transport houses. Emergency funds that should have been state reserves, somehow repackaged as loans with interest rates that look like assassination attempts written in accounting language."

Mezos’s mouth tightened. "Names?"

"Some. Not enough. The royal bank servers show one layer. The encrypted ether ledger shows another. The old paper reserves show a third, because apparently George was both stupid and nostalgic."

"That combination should be illegal," Mezos said.

"It probably is, but he was king, so everyone treated it as financial policy."

Arik’s gaze sharpened. "How much of the state revenue is tied to repayment?"

Rex laughed once.

It was ugly.

"Enough that if I honor everything George signed, I become king of a country whose budget belongs to six noble houses and three banks before any civilian sees a repaired road, a functioning hospital, or a stable ether grid."

The room went quiet.

Even the security wards seemed to hum lower.

Arik’s eyes moved from Rex to the piano, then back.

"So don’t honor it."

Rex stared at him. "That is not how debt works."

"That is how monarchy works."

Mezos folded his arms, interest sharpening. "He is not wrong."

Rex looked at him. "I hate when he is not wrong and you notice first."

Arik stepped away from the piano. "It is the country’s money. George borrowed from men who were already feeding on the country. If they knowingly wrote predatory terms to gain political control over state assets, they were not lenders. They were conspirators."

Rex’s expression changed.

Arik continued, voice calm, brutal, and very nearly bored. "Freeze their accounts. Seize the servers. Lock the bank directors out of their own systems before sunset. Arrest the noble intermediaries before they can start crying on national broadcasts. Audit the contracts. Void the fraudulent ones. Execute the worst."

Rex blinked. "You moved very fast from audit to execution."

"You asked me not to be stingy."

"With money."

"I am being generous with advice."

"Your advice is murder."

"Your country is not a democracy."

Mezos nodded. "Also, technically, treason."

Rex looked at him. "You are enjoying this."

"I enjoy clean classifications."

"That is a disturbing personality trait."

"It has served me well."

Rex rubbed both hands over his face. "If I start killing bankers before coronation, people will panic."

If you find any errors (non-standard content, ads redirect, broken links, etc..), Please let us know so we can fix it as soon as possible.