In the silence after Pei Jing’s bid, the steam escaping from the stage sounded loud enough to fill the hall.
Beitang stood at the rail. Each breath shook the silver plate at his throat. On the carpet at his feet, his accountant held a hand to his bleeding mouth.
“No more, my lord,” the old man said. “We only take in twelve hundred high-grade stones a year. The pills have already cost us five hundred and fifty. If you make the next bid, we’ll have to pledge the Azure Cloud Iron Vein. The crown could take the fief for default within ninety days.”
He bent forward until his forehead touched the carpet. His fingers closed on one of the loose beads.
“The border guards need their winter grain. Blood River is already in the northern ravines. If we lose the forts, there won’t be a Beitang name on the royal rolls by spring.”
Beitang kept his eyes on Box Thirty-Seven. His fingers came off the brass rail slowly. They left dents behind.
“Daoist Jing,” he said.
He spoke quietly, but his qi shook the gallery windows. Chandelier chains began to ring.
